That being so, he wanted no words about the matter. He would like to lie there on his sofa, with her hands enclosed in his and nothing said between either of them—very pleasant and quiet there in the dusk. He hoped that he would never again have to explain anything or speak to anyone about his feelings—no, not even to Rachel.
Then he discovered that she was sobbing as she knelt there, and his face crimsoned with confusion and alarm. Rachel, the proudest woman he had ever known, kneeling to him, crying!
He tried to lift her, pressing her hands.
"Rachel dear ... Rachel."—Her words came between her sobs.
"I should have told you ... long ago ... I tried to—I did indeed ... but it was because I was frightened ... because I ... Oh! Roddy! you'll never trust me again!"
He was burning hot with the confusion of it: he was almost angry both with himself and her.
"Please, Rachel ... please ... don't ... it's all over, dear. There's nothing the matter."
"It's fine of you ... to take it like that ... But you'll never forgive me, really, you can't—It isn't possible. This very afternoon ... I was going to tell you—if all this ... hadn't happened. You'll be different now—you must be ... just when I want you so much."
He glanced in despair about the room. He looked at the sporting prints and the case of birds' eggs and at last at Rachel's photograph. How proud and splendid she was there! This dreadful abasement!
He stroked her hair.