"I should be dishonest if I pretended to agree."
"But—don't you think you owe it to me to give what I suggest a fair trial?"
The words were trenchant, the tone was studiously soft. Irene strung herself for contest, hoping it would come quickly and undisguised.
"I owe you much. I have done you a great injustice. But waiting will do no good. I know my mind at last. I see what is possible and what impossible."
"Do you imagine, Irene, that I can part with you on these terms? Do you really think I could shake hands, and say good-bye, at this stage of our relations?"
"What can I do?" Her voice, kept low, shook with emotion. "I confess an error—am I to pay for it with my life?"
"I ask you only to be just to yourself as well as to me. Let three days go by, and see me again."
She seemed to reflect upon it. In truth she was debating whether to persevere in honesty, or to spare her nerves with dissimulation. A promise to wait three days would set her free forthwith; the temptation was great. But something in her had more constraining power.
"If I pretended to agree, I should be ashamed of myself. I should have passed from error into baseness. You would have a right to despise me; as it is, you have only a right to be angry."
As though the word acted upon his mood, Arnold sprang forward from the chair, fell upon one knee close beside her, and grasped her hands. Irene instinctively threw herself back, looking frightened; but she did not attempt to rise. His face was hot-coloured, his eyes shone unpleasantly; but before he spoke, his lips parted in a laugh.