“You are not for such a sacrifice, Margaret,” he said sadly. “I am not such a coward. You are a woman—a perfect, beautiful woman—the kind that God made all happiness for.”
“But I couldn’t be happy without you!” she cried.
“Nor with me,” he answered. “No, I’ve got to face it! All the long years I should watch that womanhood of yours growing dimmer and less full, your outlook narrowing, your life’s sympathies shrinking. I shall be shut up to myself and grow away from the world, but you shall not grow away from it with me! It would be a crime! I should come to hate myself. I want you to live your life out worthily. I would rather remember you as you are now, and as loving me once for what I was!”
Margaret’s eyes were closed. She was thinking of Melwin and Lydia.
“Woman needs more to fill her life than the love of a man’s mind. She wants more, dear. She wants the love of the heart-beat. She wants home—the home I wanted to make for you—the kind I used to dream of—the——” His voice broke here and failed.
The door pushed open without a knock. A tiny night-gowned figure stood swaying on the sill, outlined sharply against the glare of lamp-light.
“Vere’s ’iss Mar’det?” he said in high baby key. “I yants her to tiss me dood-night!”
Margaret’s hand still lay against Daunt’s cheek, and as she drew it away, she felt a great hot tear suddenly wet her fingers.