“Drink the tea, and—let me see, you like bread and butter, don’t you, instead of cakes?”
They were silent for a moment while they sipped the hot tea. Then, raising their eyes, they looked suddenly at each other.
“Lyn, I cannot do without you!”
She coloured deeply. She knew he did not mean to be selfish—but he was.
“You would be willing even to—accept my sacrifice?” she asked so softly that he did not note the yearning in the tones—the beseeching of him to abdicate the position that, for her, was untenable.
“Anything—anything, Lynda. The day without you has been—hell. We’ll get rid of the money somehow. Now that we both know how little it means, we’ll begin again and—free from Uncle William’s wrong conceptions—Lyn—” He put his cup down and rose quickly.
“Wait!” she whispered, shrinking back into her low armchair and holding him off by her smile of detachment more than by her word of command.
“I—I cannot face life without you,” Truedale spoke hoarsely, “I never really had to contemplate it before. I need you—must have you.”
He came a step nearer, but Lynda shook her head.
“Something has happened to us, Con. Something rather tremendous. We must not bungle.”