“You need not say it, James. You did not ask me, and I have not asked anything of you.”
“Before I go,” he said nervously, “I want to say this to you: I have no feeling of resentment toward you. I am able to look back upon what you would have done without a single thought of anger. You have stood by me in time of trouble. I owe a great deal to you, Yvonne. You will not accept my gratitude—it would be a farce to offer it to you under the circumstances. But I want you to know that I am grateful. You———”
“Go on, please. This is the moment for you to say that your home cannot be mine. I am expecting it.”
His eyes hardened.
“I shall never say that to you, Yvonne. You are my wife. I shall expect you to remain my wife to the very end.”
Now, for the first time, her eyes flew open with surprise. A bewildered expression came into them almost at once. He had said the thing she least expected. She put out her hand to steady herself against the door.
“Do—do you mean that, James?” she said wonderingly.
“You are my property. You are bound to me. I do not intend that you shall ever forget that, Yvonne. I don't believe you really love me, but that is not the point. Other women have not loved their husbands, and yet—yet they have been true and loyal to them.”
“You amaze me!” she cried, watching his eyes with acute wonder in her own. “Suppose that I should refuse to abide by your—what shall I call it?”
“Decision is the word,” he supplied grimly.