Pamela drew a deep breath, and for a time sat very still, her white face tense and miserable, her eyes staring blankly into space. In her mind, like a refrain, his words were repeating themselves again and again, conveying, somehow, little sense of meaning:
“In the meantime—save for one occasion—we shall not meet again.”
Abruptly their full significance broke upon her. She turned to him quickly.
“What occasion?” she asked.
Dare sat back in his seat, contemplating her gravely.
“I’ve been thinking,” he said, “all the way coming up, and again this morning, about the girl—Blanche Maitland. We haven’t finished with her,” he added, noting Pamela’s startled look. “Of course if you had decided differently, that would have been a matter we need not have concerned ourselves with. As things are, however, we have got to put it beyond her power to do you any injury. There is only one way that I can see to prevent that. Your marriage must take place as soon as possible.”
“But,” Pamela began, and paused dismayed... “I couldn’t bear—”
“No,” he interposed quickly. “I know what you are feeling. We’ll manage it as secretly as possible. It may be necessary to move him from that place. I think it will be necessary. We’ll need to take the doctor into our confidence—to a certain extent. We’ll suppress the former marriage altogether, I think.”
“Oh!” she said, and covered her eyes with her hand, and remained quiet.
He watched her keenly.