He held out his arms to her. She shrank back.
"You're making it so hard," she quavered.
"Come to me," he said gently. "That's the easy way. I love you, Marjory. Don't you understand? I love you with all my heart and soul, and I want you to begin life with me now in earnest. Come, little woman."
He reached her hands and tried to draw her toward him. She resisted with all her strength.
"You must n't," she gasped. "You must n't!"
"It's you who're making it hard now, wife o' mine," he whispered.
Yes, she was making it hard. But she must make it still harder. He had come back to her because she was alone, moved temporarily by a feeling of sentimental responsibility. That was all. He was sincere enough for the moment, but she must not confuse this with any deeper passion. He had made a mistake in returning to the Normandie. Doubtless he had felt lonesome there. It was only natural that he should exaggerate that, for the time being, into something more.
Then Peter's two letters had come. If Peter had not told him anything that he should n't, he had probably told him a great deal more than he should. Monte, big-hearted and good, had, as a consequence of all these things, imagined himself in love. This delusion might last a week or two; and then, when he came to himself again, the rude awakening would follow. He would see her then merely as a trifler. Worse than that, he might see himself as merely a trifler. That would be deadly.
"It's you who are making it hard now," he repeated.
She had succeeded in freeing herself, leaving him before her as amazed and hurt as a spurned child.