Lacour threw one leg over the other, and bent the paper-knife on his knee.
“You must remember,” he said, “that marriages spring from many other motives besides personal inclination. I have told you that I don’t defend myself. I’m afraid I mustn’t say more than that.”
Rhoda let her eyes wander; agitation was again getting hold upon her.
“You mean that I have no right to question you. I know I haven’t, but—it all seems so impossible,” she burst forth. “How can you tell me in such a voice that you are doing what you know isn’t right? When father told me this morning I didn’t know about that will; he only explained, because there was no use in keeping it secret any longer, and of course he knew nothing of—of the way it would come upon me.”
“Ah, you know about the will? I am very glad of that; it makes our explanation easier.”
She fixed her eyes upon him; they were only sad at first, but expanded into a despairing amazement.
“How can you speak so to me?” she asked in a low and shaken voice.
Lacour threw away the paper-cutter, and once more stood up.
“How am I to speak, Rhoda? Should you prefer to have me tell you lies? Why couldn’t you accept the fact, and, knowing all the details, draw your own conclusion? You were at liberty to hold me in contempt, or to pity me, as you thought fit; you were even at liberty to interfere to spoil my marriage if you liked——”
“You think me capable of that? No wonder you part from me so easily. I thought you knew me better.”