“Don’t, don’t!” he wailed. “I can’t bear that! I will do as you wish, Monica. Tell me some place where I can write to you. Don’t cry, darling—don’t—”
She went to the couch again, and rested her face against the back, sobbing. For a time they exchanged mere incoherences. Then passion seized upon both, and they clung together, mute, motionless.
“To-morrow I shall leave him,” whispered Monica, when at length their eyes met. “He will be away in the morning, and I can take what I need. Tell me where I shall go to, dear—to wait until you are ready. No one will ever suspect that we have gone together. He knows I am miserable with him; he will believe that I have found some way of supporting myself in London. Where shall I live till Tuesday?”
Bevis scarcely listened to her words. The temptation of the natural man, basely selfish, was strengthening its hold upon him.
“Do you love me? Do you really love me?” he replied to her, with thick, agitated utterance.
“Why should you ask that? How can you doubt it?”
“If you really love me—”
His face and tones frightened her.
“Don’t make me doubt your love! If I have not perfect trust in you what will become of me?”
Yet once more she drew resolutely away from him. He pursued, and held her arms with violence.