"No, don't do that. Don't be cruel, Peggy!" he said, in a voice instinct with agonised pleading. "Don't be cruel, Peggy! No, no! Don't ring!"
"I shall," she said firmly, and stretched out her hand.
"Peggy, trust me. I love you better than anything in the world—better than myself. For you I will sacrifice wealth, honour."
"Honour!" she cried.
"I'll do anything to win you. Everything I have done has been to win you—to have you for my own. You know it is true. Peggy, before God, I believed that you loved me too. Don't judge me harshly—oh, don't do that!"
Peggy put out her hand and pressed the bell-push.
"I must be alone," she said in a dull, muffled voice.
He saw that it was useless, that he had failed, that the plans of months had all miscarried, that everything was over for him as far as she was concerned. Undisciplined as his nature was, baffled and disowned as he felt, he nevertheless showed himself rather fine in that moment. He made an almost superhuman effort at self-control—and succeeded.
"All right, Peggy dear," he said. "Don't be afraid. Everything will come right. Good night." With one last lingering look at her he left the room, closing the door which led into his own.
Peggy sank down upon the sofa almost over-mastered by her rising hysteria, limp and half unconscious.