“It will not take me a week,” she went on with no change in her monotone; “I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night, perhaps.”
He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she stepped back and waved him off.
“Don’t touch me,” she cried in a suppressed voice; “at least you are not my husband—yet.”
She turned hastily toward the door without another word.
“Wait!”
His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.
“I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can come to me and honestly say, ‘I trust my happiness to you,’ well and good. But as I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot always control myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission is damaging, it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain you longer.”
He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Her gentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back and held out her hand.
“I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon my selfishness?”
His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, but merely bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeing that he had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to her side, and she left the room.