“I know you think that of me,” she said humbly. “But, indeed, indeed, I don’t mean to be cruel—only to myself.”
“No, I suppose not!” retorted Daunt bitterly. “Women never mean things! Why should they? They leave that to men! Do you suppose,” he said with quick fierceness, “that there is anything left in life for me? Is it that I’ve fallen in your estimation? You thought I was strong, perhaps, and now you have come to the conclusion that I’m weak! And the fact that it was you and that you felt too makes no difference. I’ve heard of women like that, but I never believed there were any! You wash your feeling entirely out of your conscience, and I’m the one who must hang for it. And in spite of it all, you’re human! Do you think I don’t know that?”
She put out her hands as if to ward off a tangible blow. “Don’t,” she said weakly, “please don’t!”
“Don’t?” he repeated. “Does it hurt to speak of it? Do you want to forget it? Do you think I ever shall? I don’t want to. It’s all I shall have to remind me that once you had a heart!”
“No! no!” she cried vehemently. “You must understand me better than that! Don’t you see that I want to do what you say? Don’t you see that my only way is to fight it? It is I who am weak! Oh, it seems in the past month I have learned so much! I am too wise!”
“Wait,” he said; “can you say truly in your heart that you do not love me?”
“That—isn’t it,” she stammered.
“It is!” he flamed. “Tell me you don’t love me and I will go away.”
She was silent, twisting up her fingers with a still intensity.
“Tell me!”