"Very well; it's a view to keep in mind. But it's not only occasional things like that that I deprecate in your letters; the letters themselves should cease."
"Really." He drew himself up and returned her direct look, but the wasted face and sunken eyes struck compunction to his heart. "Very well," he said, soothingly.
"It's not very well at all, but very ill, that you should try to waive the subject."
"Waive it?"
"Yes. You think I'm dying, and you won't oppose me. I'm not dying, and I mean to see Val through this before I do die."
"Through what?"
"Through her foolish befogment about you. I had a long talk with Harry Wilbur last week. He has behaved well. You—" She paused, as if trying to pluck out the heart of his mystery; then, abandoning the attempt: "I want you to promise me before you leave this room that you'll go away by the next train, and that you won't see Val, or write to her, till one or other of you is safely and suitably married."
He had a moment's temptation to pacify her at all costs, but as he looked into the old face he felt that a degradation would cling to him if he played falsely with a spirit as honest and courageous as this. She wasn't a woman one could lie to comfortably.
"I can't promise you that," he said, after a struggle.