"No, no. It can do no good."
"Let me finish," he said calmly. "It was the other girl I was thinking about. I was still pledged to her. I could have written her for my release—but matters came to a crisis rather suddenly. And then you told me of your engagement to Mr. Wray. You see, after that I didn't care what happened." He paused, leaning with one hand on the table, his head bent. "Perhaps I ought not to speak to you in this way now. But it was on your own account. I don't know what I said to you. I only remember that I did not ask you to marry me, but that I wanted you with me always."
His voice sounded very far away to Camilla, like a message from another life she had lived so long ago that it seemed almost a message from the dead. She did not know whether what she most felt was happiness or misery. The one thing she was sure of was that he had no right to be speaking to her in this way and that she had no right to be listening. But still she listened. His words sank almost to a whisper, but she heard. "I wanted you to be with me always. I knew afterward that I had never loved any woman but you—God help me—that I never could love any other woman——" He stopped again. In her corner Camilla was crying softly—tears of pity for him, for the ashes of their dead.
"Don't, dear," he said gently. She thought he was coming forward and raised her head to protest, but she saw that he still stood by the table, his back toward her. She turned one look of mute appeal, which he did not see, in his direction, and then rose quickly.
"You must never speak in this way again," she said, with a surer note. "Never. I should not have listened. It is my fault. But I have been so—so glad to hear that—you didn't mean what you said. God knows I forgive you, and I only hope you can understand—how it was—with me. You had been so friendly—so clean. It wounded me—horribly. It made me lose my faith in all things, and I wanted to keep you—as a friend."
"I think I may still be a friend."
"I hope so——" She emerged diffidently and laid her hand gently on his arm. "If you want to be my friend you must forget."
"I'll try. I have tried. That was easier this morning than it is this afternoon. It will be harder to-night—harder still to-morrow." He gave a short laugh and turned away from her toward the fireplace where he stood, watching the gray embers.
"Oh, people don't die of this sort of thing," he muttered.
It was almost with an air of unconcern that she began rearranging the Beauties on the table, speaking with such a genuine spirit of raillery that he turned to look at her.