"I know, but I'll be a marked figure, all the same."
"You were a marked figure before. But consider all explanations have been made—wait till you read my article. Go back!" she insisted. "I wish you would." Her voice was rich with pleading. "It would make me happy. I feel horribly guilty—really I do. I'm only a grubbing reporter-person—I've had to earn my way and keep house for my grandmother besides; but I'd gladly share my salary to help you return to college. Please go back—it will relieve my mind of a big burden."
He took her hand in the spirit in which it was offered. "I am within a few days of graduation, but—"
"Please go back—for the sake of a poor little newspaper wretch who feels that she has indirectly spoiled your career." She pressed his hand fervidly. "Promise me this and you'll take a monstrous load off my shoulders."
She had the face, the temperament of the actress, and loved to experiment on the hearts of men; but she was deeply in earnest now. Bartol and Stinchfield had really changed her point of view as regards Mrs. Ollnee, and this "situation" appealed to her at the moment with irresistible power. Life was to her a drama, intense, never-ending, romantic, and at the moment she loved this splendid young man orphaned by her hand.
He could not resist her caressing voice, her appealing eyes, her sensitive lips, and he said, "I promise."
"Thank you," she said, and, dropping his hand, she lifted burning yet tearful eyes to his face. "You are very generous."
He went on, "I am sure you meant well."
"I don't want to rest under false imputations," she repeated. "I did not mean well. That first article was savage. I was angry. I struck blindly, but I struck to hurt."
"Well, all that is ended," he replied, sadly. "My mother is to be buried to-day."