"It had—to be," he said, in the husky halting voice so unfamiliar to her. "It—was a mistake—to try to bring me back. I'm—beyond—redemption. Ask Burke;—he knows!"
"You are not—you are not!" she told him vehemently. "Guy!" She was holding his hand hard pressed against her heart; her words came with a rush of pitying tenderness that swept over every barrier. "Guy! I want you! You must stay. If you go now—you—you will break my heart."
His eyes kindled a little at her words, but in a moment the emotion passed. "It's too late, my dear;—too late," he said and turned his head on the pillow under it as if seeking rest. "You don't—understand. Just as well for me perhaps. But I'm better gone—for your sake, better gone."
The conviction of his words went through her like a sword-thrust. He seemed to have passed beyond her influence, almost, she fancied, not to care. Yet why did the look in his eyes make her think of a lost child—frightened, groping along an unknown road in the dark? Why did his hand cling to hers as though it feared to let go?
She held it very tightly as she made reply. "But, Guy, it isn't for us to choose. It isn't for us to discharge ourselves. Only God knows when our work is done."
He groaned. "I've given all mine to the devil. God couldn't use me if He tried."
"You don't know," she said. "You don't know. We're none of us saints, I think He makes allowances—when things go wrong with us—just as—just as we make allowances for each other."
He groaned again. "You would make allowances for the devil himself," he muttered. "It's the way you're made. But it isn't justice. Burke would tell you that."
An odd little tremor of impatience went through her. "I know you better than Burke does," she said. "Better, probably—than anyone else in the world."
He turned his head to and fro upon the pillow. "You don't know me,
Sylvia. You don't know me—at all."