“Yes; and that is what I am thinking of now when I implore of you to leave her—to leave your book—everything—and fly to the uttermost ends of the earth to escape the blow which is about to fall upon you.”
“I am sorry that I cannot see my way to take your advice,” said he. “I do not share your fears for the future. But whatever Fate may have in store for me, of one thing I am assured: the hardest blow will seem as the falling of a feather when she is beside me. I am sorry that you, my oldest friend—But I am sure that later on you will change your views. No one knows better than I do that such a girl as she might reasonably expect to have a younger man at her feet; but I think I know myself, and I am sure that I shall be to her a sympathetic husband.”
He had gone to the door while he was speaking.
“You will wish that you had never seen her,” said Agnes.
“Will you force me to wish that I had never seen you?” he said, in a low voice. He had not yet lost the tone of reproach which he conceived to be appropriate to the conversation that had originated with her.
This last sentence stung her. For a moment she felt as she had done on that night when she had flung down his miniature and trampled on it. Her face became deathly pale. But she controlled herself.
“I will answer that question of yours another time,” she said quietly.
He returned to her.
“Forgive me for having said what I did,” he cried. “I spoke thoughtlessly—brutally.”
“But I promise you that I will answer you, all the same,” said she. “Clare is in her studio.”