"And he has been so good to me, so—good," she faltered.
"Yes, yes," he said hastily. Should he lie to her as she lay dying? Should he swear, if need be, that he, too, was purged of hate and envy? Why not, if such empty words had any virtue in them for her? But the lie could not leave his lips. A minute or two passed in silence. Then she whispered: "You will not leave me, Mark?"
Again he kissed her fingers.
"I shall not leave you, dear, dear Betty."
"Ah, but I must leave you. And I'm afraid."
"If I could go too——Shall I? Would it make it easier?"
The life raging in him communicated itself to her. A faint colour flowed into her cheeks, her eyes sparkled.
"You would do that?"
"Gladly."
"I knew you would say it. But I am not afraid for myself. I am—afraid—for—you. And if—if you went with me, we should part on the other side."