“You have, then, no more wish to save him?”
“He may not have done it, he may be able to explain, and it is shameful of us to condemn him unheard.”
“I warn you, Bice, that you will put it out of my power to save him.”
“We must run the risk,” she answered, in a low, resolute voice.
Oliver could scarcely restrain his passion. He was certain that Ibbetson was at the bottom of her determination, and it seemed as if all his plots, his hopes, were to be baffled by this man. He longed to charge her with it, to taunt her with Jack’s engagement, but he did not dare, for Bice’s was not a nature which could be safely goaded into resentment, and he feared the flash of her eyes and what it might tell him. He controlled himself.
“Write, then,” he said, “write at once. Clive will not acknowledge that anything is wrong.”
“We shall see.”
“And am I still to be your shuttlecock?” he said hoarsely. “Have pity, Bice, have pity! Such love as mine deserves some return—”
She interrupted him.
“It deserves to find love, I know, and that is what I have not got to give. I am very sorry, Oliver, only I must be true with you, at all costs.”