“I can’t,” he muttered, “I cannot speak—even to you. I am sworn to secrecy.”
She drooped upon his arms and then moved away despairingly. It was the failure of the appeal of her femininity that condemned him.
“Oh, you won’t let me believe in you. You won’t let me. It’s too great a test you’re asking of me. Everything is against you—but the worst witness is your silence!”
He stood by the mantel, his head lowered.
“It is hard for you—hard for us both,” he said softly, “but I can’t tell you anythin’—anythin’.” He raised his head and looked at her with pity. She had sunk upon the divan, her head upon her arms in a despair too deep for tears.
He crossed and laid his hand gently upon her shoulder.
“You must trust in me if you can. I will try to be worthy of it. That’s all I can say.” He paused. “And now you must go to bed. You’re a bit fagged. Perhaps in the mornin’ you’ll pull up a bit and see things differently.”
She straightened slowly and their eyes met for a moment. His never wavered, and she saw that they were very kind, but she rose silently and without offering him her lips or even her hand, moved slowly toward the door.
He reached it in a stride before her and put his hand upon the knob.
“There’s one thing more I’ve got to ask.”