He laid a hand upon her knee as she sat above him in sore perplexity.
"Would you have me do anything else?" he said.
She answered him with a conscious effort. "I want you to love—and marry—the right woman."
He uttered a queer, unsteady laugh and leaned his head against her. "Oh, my dear," he said, "there is no other woman but you in all the world."
Something fiery that was almost like a dart of pain went through Avery at his words. She moved instinctively, but it was not in shrinking. After a moment she laid her hand upon his.
"Piers," she said, "I can't bear hurting you."
"You wouldn't hurt a fly," said Piers.
She smiled faintly. "Not if I could help it. But that doesn't prove that I am fond of flies. And now, Piers, I am going to ask a very big thing of you. I wonder if you will do it."
"I wonder," said Piers.
He had not moved at her touch, yet she felt his fingers close tensely as they lay upon her knee, and she guessed that he was still striving to control the inner tumult that had so nearly overwhelmed him a few minutes before.
"I know it is a big thing," she said. "Yet—for my sake if you like—I want you to do it."