Gregory started on a restless walk up and down the room.
“Look at here,” he shot out finally, “are you—I haven’t said anything about it—but—of course I’ve wanted to—are you determined to leave Mark? He’s one of the best fellows in the world. I hate to see him thrown down. You—you—I think you should reconsider.”
“I had done all my considering before I spoke to Mark. I am doing him the greatest possible kindness. He needs another sort of woman altogether to make him happy. And I? Have I not my right to happiness? Do you think I could find it with Mark?”
“No!” The word exploded. “And you—shall you marry again?”
“I don’t know.” Ora spoke in a strangled voice. New possibilities were shaking her to her foundations. For a moment the perverse imp in the purely feminine section of her brain counselled her to run away as ever from the serious mood in man, to play with great issues and then dodge them. But she brushed the prompting aside with frantic haste and summoned her courage. If this was happiness coming to her grasp she would seize it.
Gregory came swiftly back from the farther end of the room and stood before her. He had set the muscles of the lower part of his face so tightly that he could hardly open his mouth, but his narrow eyes were blazing. “If Ida would give me my freedom,” he said, “I should want to marry you. Do you understand?”
Ora stood up. Her white face was so radiant that Gregory fell back. “You love me?” he asked.
“Yes.—Oh, yes——”
“You would marry me?”
“Yes!”