He did not reply.
"Could you treat me so? Is it my fault that you—you fell in love with me? I'm not responsible for that—am I? I didn't make you do it, did I? Would you have me give up all this? Think a moment, Philidor. Wouldn't it be cruel of you—after letting me be what I am—after letting me know what I can be—after giving me an ego, an individuality, and making me a success in life—to send me back to Paris to be a mere nonentity? You couldn't, I'll not go."
Her voice, half mocking, half tender, rose at the end in a note of stubbornness.
"Of course, you will do as you please," he muttered.
He felt rather than heard her coming toward him.
"Don't be cross with me," she pleaded. "I—I don't want to go away—from this—from you, Philidor."
He turned quickly—but she thrust out her hand with a frank gesture which he could not misinterpret.
"You're the best friend I have in the world," she said.
He took her hand in both of his and held it a moment.
"That's something," he muttered. "I'll try to be—to deserve your faith in me."