“If you were a—a marrying man—?” she said foolishly—almost in a whisper.
He recovered himself.
“I am not,” with a finality which cut as cleanly as a surgical knife.
Something which was not the words was of a succinctness which filled her with new terror.
“I—I know!” she whimpered, “I only said if you were!”
“If I were—in this instance—it would make no difference.” He saw the kind of slippery silliness he was dealing with and what it might transform itself into if allowed a loophole. “There must be no mistakes.”
In her fright she saw him for a moment more distinctly than she had ever seen him before and hideous dread beset her lest she had blundered fatally.
“There shall be none,” she gasped. “I always knew. There shall be none at all.”
“Do you know what you are asking me?” he inquired.
“Yes, yes—I’m not a girl, you know. I’ve been married. I won’t go home. I can’t starve or live in awful lodgings. Somebody must save me!”