"You will regret it," he said fiercely. "I tell you you can't thank God for me, because I'm not what you want to think me. I'm what the Harry you knew in America was, only worse—a liar, a cheat——"
He paused as she rose, saving himself the revelation on the tip of his tongue by the sight of her face in the firelight as she turned. It was transfigured by her new faith in him, and in her joy in the possession. She came to him quickly, and put her soft fingers over his lips, while the other arm went around his shoulders.
"Hush, alanah," she said.
"No—you mustn't, Moira," he muttered, taking her hands down and clasping them both in his. "You mustn't." And then, at the look of disappointment that came into her eyes, caught both her hands to his lips and covered them with kisses. Against the sweet allure of her he struggled, sure that never mortal man had been so tried before, but surer still that the love he bore for her was greater than all temptation.
She looked at him, flushed at the warmth of this formal caress, which left no doubt of him, but marveling at his renunciation of her lips, which had been so near.
"I can't be listening when you call yourself such names."
"You don't understand—and I can't tell you—anything more just now. I haven't—the will."
He noted the look of alarm which was a token of the suffering he must cause her and he led her to his chair and made her sit.
"I can't make you unhappy—not to-night. I—I'm sorry you read my thoughts. I shouldn't have let you see."
He had turned to the fire and leaned against the chimney piece. And after a moment, clear and very tender, he heard her voice.