If a moment ago when she was relaxed in his arms he had thought that he had won her, he had no such notion now, for with a final effort of her strong young arms, she thrust away from him and stood panting and disordered, staring at him as though at one she had never seen before.
"Oh—how I hate you!"
"Beth!"
"I mean it. You—you——," she turned away from him, staring at the torn music on the ground as at a symbol of her disillusionment. Peter saw her look, felt the meaning of it, tried to recall the words he had said to her and failed—but sure that they were a true reflection of what had been in his heart. He had wanted her—then—nothing else had mattered—not duty or his set resolve....
"You mocked at me, Beth," he muttered. "I couldn't stand that——"
"And is this the way you punish me? Ah, if you'd only—if you'd only——"
And then with another glance at the torn music, she leaned against the trunk of a tree, sobbing violently.
"Beth——" he whispered, gently, "don't——"
"Go away. Oh, go. Go!"
"I can't. I won't. What did you want me to say to you? That I love you? I do, Beth—I do," he whispered. It was Peter Nichols, not Peter Nicholaevitch, who was whispering now.