"Go on!" he said.
Her head was bent. She went on tremulously. "You are quite right—when you say—that you don't know me—that I have given you no reason—no good reason—to believe in me. I have taken—a great deal from you. And I have given—nothing in return. I see that now. That is why you distrust me. I—have only myself to thank."
She paused a moment, but he waited in absolute silence, neither helping nor hindering.
With a painful effort she continued. "People make mistaken—sometimes—without knowing it. It comes to them afterwards—perhaps too late. But—it isn't too late with me, Burke. I am your partner—your wife. And—I never meant to—defraud you. All I have—is yours. I—am yours."
She stopped. Her head was bowed against his hand. That dreadful sobbing threatened to overwhelm her again, but she fought it down. She waited quivering for his answer.
But for many seconds Burke neither moved nor spoke. The grasp of his hand was vicelike in its rigidity. She had no key whatever to what was passing in his mind.
Not till she had mastered herself and was sitting in absolute stillness, did he stir. Then, very quietly, with a decision that brooked no resistance, he took her by the chin with his free hand and turned her face up to his own. He looked deep into her eyes. His own were no longer ablaze, but a fitful light came and went in them like the flare of a torch in the desert wind.
"So," he said, and his voice was curiously unsteady also; it vibrated as if he were not wholly sure of himself, "you have made your choice—and counted the cost?"
"Yes," she said.
He looked with greater intentness into her eyes, searching without mercy, as if he would force his way to her very soul. "And for whose sake this—sacrifice?" he said.