She arose and crossed to the door, which she cautiously opened. For a moment she remained there listening, then closing it gently, she came over and stood before him.
"Love is a wonderful thing, Kenneth," she said slowly. "It is the most powerful force in all the world. It overcomes reason, it crushes the conscience, it makes strong men weak and weak men strong. For love a woman will give her honour, for love a man will barter his chance for eternal salvation. It overlooks faults, it condones crime, it rises above every obstacle that the human mind can put before it. It knows no fear, it has no religion, it serves no God. You love my girl, Kenneth. She is the daughter of the woman you despise, the daughter of one you call evil. Is your love for her great enough,—or will it ever be great enough,—to overcome these obstacles? In plain words, would you take her unto yourself as your wife, to love and cherish and honour,—mind you, HONOUR,—to the end of your days on earth?"
He stood up, facing her, his face white.
"She has done nothing dishonourable," he said levelly.
"'The sins of the mother,'" she paraphrased, without taking her eyes from his.
"Was her mother any worse than my father? Has the sin been visited upon one of us and not upon the other?"
"Then, you WOULD be willing to take Viola as your wife?"
He seemed to wrench his gaze away. "Oh, what is the use of talking about the impossible?" he exclaimed. "I have confessed that I love her,—yes, in spite of everything,—and you—"
"You have not answered my question."
"No, I have not," he said deliberately,—"and I do not intend to answer it. You know as well as I that I cannot ask her to marry me, so why speak of it? Good God, could I ask my own sister to be my wife?"