"My God!" she heard him whisper to himself; "she would rather die!..."
Peggy had followed him, and she stood at the end of the sofa, aghast at what she had done. She began to speak slowly and nervously.
"Colling, don't do that. I really can't bear that you should think me unkind. I like you too well to let you do anything that would spoil our happiness. I am not unkind—really I am not. Have not I shown how fond of you I am? We have been such good friends!"
"Friends!" he said bitterly, without looking up from his hands.
His voice was so cold, so charged with misery and sudden realisation, that it cut the girl to the heart. She went round from the back of the sofa and knelt at his feet, stretching out her hand timidly, and touching the sleeve of his coat.
"Colling, dear, what else can we be?" she said.
He looked down at her, and for a moment his voice did not soften. There was a quiet, dogged misery in it.
"We have passed the merely friendship line," he said; "and you know that well enough, Peggy. That has been passed a long time. You would not have left London with me if we had only been friends and nothing more. Were we only friends when we used to sit up together night after night at Ellerdine's house? Do 'friends' speak to each other as we have spoken? Why, you have only to touch my hand to know that I burn with longing."
"Colling, you mustn't say such things!"
He jumped up roughly, leaving her kneeling upon the floor, and passed with rapid steps to the window.