"You cannot suppose that I mean to prevent you by force," said Wimpole, and he stood aside to let her pass if she would.
"You said that it was a trial of strength," she answered.
She hesitated one moment, and then turned and began to walk with him. They crossed the street to the side by which the river runs, away from the hotels and the houses. It was darker there and more quiet, and they felt more alone. It would seem easier, too, to talk in the open air, with the sound of the rushing water in their ears. He was the first to speak then.
"I want to explain," he said quietly.
"Yes." She waited for him to go on.
"I suppose that there are times in life when it is better to throw over one's own scruples, if one has any," he began. "I have never done anything to be very proud of, perhaps, but I never did anything to be ashamed of either. Perhaps I shall be ashamed of what I am going to say now. I don't care. I would rather commit a crime than let you wreck your whole existence, but I hope you will not make me do that."
They had stopped in their walk, and were leaning against the railing that runs along the bank.
"You are talking rather desperately," said Helen, in a low voice.
"It is rather a desperate case," Wimpole answered. "I talk as well as I can, and there are things which I must tell you, whatever you think of me; things I never meant to say, but which have made up most of my life. I never meant to tell you."
"What?"