“Impossible! He did not write.”
She pointed to the unopened letter lying upon a table, with the florid crest plainly showing.
“I had not opened it,” he said. “I thought—”
“That it was from me. How cruel men can be! He asks you to come back.”
“At your persuasion?” cried Dale fiercely.
“Yes, at my persuasion, and you will come. You must—you shall.” She clung closer to him. “Armstrong,” she whispered, “I cannot live without you. You have drawn me to you; I could bear it no longer;” and she held to him once more in spite of his repellent hands.
“It is madness—your husband—your—your title—your fair fame as a woman.”
“Empty words to me now,” she said in a low, thrilling whisper. “I could not stay. You are my world—everything to me now.”
“Woman, I tell you again, this is madness—your husband?”
“With Lady Grayson, I believe. What does it matter? I am here—with you. Armstrong, am I to go on my knees to you? I will—you have humbled me so. Why are you so cruel, when you love me too?”