His eyes held such a piteously fearful look that Mavis was moved in spite of herself. He went on:
"If my disposition were like my twisted body, it wouldn't matter. But I love life, movement, struggling. Were I as I used to be, I should love to have a beautiful, responsive woman for my own. I should love to have you."
Before Mavis knew what she had done, she had put her hand on his. Then he said, as if speaking to himself:
"What have I to offer besides a helpless, envious love? My wife would be a nurse, not a mistress, as she should be."
"Stop! stop!" she pleaded.
"No, I will not stop," he cried, as he bent over to hold her head so that her eyes looked into his. "You shall listen and then decide. I love you. If it's good enough, I'm yours. You know what I have to offer, and I ask you to be my wife because I can't help myself. Because—"
Mavis had closed her eyes for fear that he should read her heart. He passionately kissed the closed lids before sinking back exhausted in his chair.
"Listen to me," said Mavis after a while. "It's I who am to blame. Let me go away so that you can forget me."
"Forget you! forget you!" he cried. "No, you shall not go away; not till you've said 'yes' or 'no' to what I ask."
"When shall I answer?"