“I cannot!” There was such tragic disgust in his tones that Margarethe had never liked him half as well.
“I am afraid that you really hate her.”
“I wish she were dead and buried!”
“And yet you are thinking of spending your ruined life with her! Oh, the folly of youth! But one might as well talk to the winds. What would become of the world if women had such extravagant notions of honour?”
Ordham, being a man, laughed at this. But he replied, “I should think that you—of all women—had a very keen sense of honour.”
“Perhaps, but I don’t strain the point. And I have lived long enough to leaven ideals with common sense. Well—at least promise me this—that for one week—seven whole days, mind you—you will not take a step that would ruin your life. It is not so much to ask.”
“Yes—I think I can promise you that. I have a sore throat and no doubt can develop a case of bronchitis and go to bed for a few days. Strangers always get bronchitis during their first year in Munich.”
“Good!”
“But I don’t see what you can do.”
“Nor I; but I shall disown myself for the rest of my life if I don’t think of something. Only I must have time.”