She drew back from him.
"I do not want their forgiveness. I do not want them. I am happiest alone."
He made no answer, but went slowly towards the door. She knew that she had hurt him, and in her bitterness and wounded pride it gave her a painful satisfaction to know that he too suffered. Yet she loved him; she knew, as he stood there with bent head, that she would give her life for him—only she could not surrender herself, her individuality, the old ties of blood and instinct. She could not, would not break down the barrier which her race built between them. She was too proud, perhaps too hurt to try.
Suddenly Arnim looked up. His features were quiet and composed, and the gathering twilight hid the expression in his eyes.
"Nora, where is Miles?"
"Still in bed. He—he is not feeling well."
"The effects of yesterday?" He laughed grimly. "It seems to me, dear, that your brother would be the better for some occupation—in his own country."
"You wish him to go?"
He met her challenge with an unfaltering determination that was yet mingled with tenderness and pity.
"I think it better—before it is too late."