“But you don’t understand,” he cried. “This is not a matter of thousands; it’s millions, and it’s yours by right. It’s a colossal fortune here in your hand—yours almost for the asking.”
“It will never be mine. I wouldn’t have it. Oh, let me go! This is too horrible.”
“Wait—just one moment. If it came to an actual suit it might be painful and trying for you. But how if I can arrange a compromise with Mrs. Shackleton? I think I can. When she knows that you have the proofs of the marriage she’ll be glad enough to settle. She doesn’t want these things to come out any more than you do. She’s a smart woman, and she’ll know that your silence is the most valuable thing she can buy. Do you understand?”
“I understand just one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“You.”
For the second time they looked at each other for a motionless, deep-breathing moment. There was nothing in their faces or attitudes that suggested lovers. They looked like a pair of antagonists at pause in their struggle—on the alert for a continuance of battle.
“Yes, I understand you now,” she said in a low voice; “you’ve made me understand you.”
“I only want to make you understand one thing—how much I love you.”
She drew back with a movement of violent repugnance. He suddenly stretched out his arms and came toward her.