He swung upon his heel with the words, but Frances threw out a hand, grasping his arm.
“Montague,—please—you’re not in earnest! You can’t be! I mean—it’s so utterly preposterous.”
He stood still, the smile gone from his face. Very suddenly he threw aside the cloak of irony in which he had wrapped himself, and met her appeal with absolute sincerity.
“I am in earnest,” he said. “And it is not preposterous. Can’t you realize that a time may come in a man’s life when just for his own soul’s sake he has got to prove to himself that he is not an utter skunk? It doesn’t matter what other people think. They can think what they damn’ well please. But he himself—the thing that goes with him always, that sleeps when he sleeps and wakes when he wakes—do you think he can afford to be out with that? By God, no! Life isn’t worth having under those conditions. I’d sooner die and be damned straight away.”
He laughed upon the words, but it was a laugh of exceeding bitterness. And there came to Frances in that moment the conviction that what he said was right. No power on earth can ever compensate for the loss of self-respect.
Somehow that passionate utterance of his went straight to her heart. If she had not forgiven him before, her forgiveness was now complete and generous. She saw in him in the hour of his repentance the man whom once she could have loved, and she was deeply moved thereby.
“Are you satisfied?” he said. “Have I convinced you that I am playing the game—or trying to?”
She met his eyes though she knew that her own were wet. “Yes, I am convinced,” she said. “I am satisfied.”
“And what are you going to do?” he questioned.
Very simply she made answer. “I will go to Tetherstones.”