She was standing close to him waiting for him to turn and clasp her in his arms, as he had so nearly clasped her once against her will. But seconds passed and he did not move, and a cold foreboding began to knock at her heart lest after all—lest after all—his love for her had waned.
He stirred at last, just as she was on the point of turning from him, stretched out a groping hand that found and drew her to his side. But still he did not look at her or so much as raise his head.
He spoke after a moment in a choked voice that seemed to be wrung from him by sheer physical torture. "Avery, don't—don't tempt me. I—daren't!"
The anguish of the words went through her, banishing all thought of anything else. Very suddenly she knew that he was fighting a desperate battle for her sake, that he was striving with all the strength that was in him to set her happiness before his own. And something that was greater than pity entered into her with the knowledge, something so great as to be all-possessing, compelling her to instant action.
She slipped her arm about his bent shoulders with a gesture of infinite tenderness. "Piers—dear boy, what is it?" she said softly. "Is there some trouble in your past—something you can't bear to speak of? Remember, I am not a girl, I may understand—some things—better than you think."
She felt his hold upon her tighten almost convulsively, but for a while he made no answer.
Then at length slowly he raised his head and looked at her. "Do you—really—think the past matters?" he said.
She met his eyes with their misery and their longing, and a tremor of uncertainty went through her.
"Tell me, Avery!" he insisted. "If you felt yourself able to get away from old burdens, and if—if there was no earthly reason why they should hamper your future—" He broke off, and again his arm tightened. "It's damnable that they should!" he muttered savagely.
"My dear, I don't know how to answer you," she said. "Are—you afraid to be open with me? Do you think I shouldn't understand?"