"When I say that I want to kiss you now," he said, "it doesn't mean in the way it would have, even a day or two ago. I told you then you affected me . . . but now it would be because I love you."
Sophia's hand moved slightly in his.
"Yes," she said hesitatingly, "in a way—of course. I know you're very fond of me—and all that."
"In the way," he returned, "and I'm not fit to hold your hand. D'you know what the life of an average man is like—especially of a man in my circumstances?"
"Yes—bought women," he said brutally. "Does it make a lot of difference to you?"
Sophia, refusing to let her mind so much as dwell with any effort of realization on his confession, closed her hand firmly over his.
"It doesn't make any difference. Nothing does. If I could look after you—if you were free to be looked after—you wouldn't have to go to other women any more. I care about you more than about any man I've ever met."
"And I don't care about you more than any woman I've ever met. You're unique and you're you, but I've been in love a good many times. And there's always the big one I've told you about. I feel I've so little left to give, and yet—by God, Sophia! I could give to you, even battered old I!"
"I'd be such a wife to you," said Sophia proudly, clenching her free hand, "that I should fear no other woman on earth."