"And De Foligny? You forget him—"
He came quickly over and took her hands in his.
"You can seal this secret, if you will, as in a tomb. Do it, Olga. It will be magnificent of you. Give me your word—your promise to keep silent—to keep De Folligny silent—"
She had turned, her chin upon her shoulder, away from him.
"You ask a great deal," she said with reluctance.
"Not more than you can give—not more than you will give. Whatever your—your differences she doesn't deserve this of you. Will it give you pleasure in after years to think of her life embittered—of his life embittered, too, by a piece of gossip, woven out of a tissue of half-truths—that will damn her—as half-truths do?"
"You love her so much as this?" she gasped.
He relinquished her hand—stood a moment looking dumbly at her and then walked the length of the room away. The little clock on the mantel ticked gaily, the fire sparkled and the familiar sounds of the careless city came faintly to their ears. She stirred and he turned toward her.
"Will you promise?" he asked quietly.
"Promise what?"