"Oh, Paul, not that, not that! Leave me a moment, please. I—I want time to—to grasp it."
When she was alone she sat upright and faced the look she had seen in Paul's eyes.
"I am a canting hypocrite. I see it now, plainly. I read it in Paul's eyes. But I will show him he's mistaken. God! is hypocrisy always so cruelly punished? Merciful God, have pity upon me!"
Rising to her feet, Margaret staggered to the door and called. The enthusiasm, the exaltation, had faded from her face, leaving it pinched and gray. But in her eyes a new expression had been born, which lent a soft radiance to her features, the light of complete self-denial. Paul entered, gave one look, then knelt at his wife's feet.
"Forgive me, my love, for misunderstanding you. The fault was mine. You've been afraid I would not make good, and were testing me. Ah, my love."
For one terrible moment Margaret hesitated. Then she whispered:
"No, Paul, you were right at first; but love has conquered. Not our love, but a greater, nobler sentiment: love of Right and Justice. Do you remember the verse: 'Though I speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not love, I am become as sounding brass or a tinkling cymbal.' I—I am not a tinkling cymbal, Paul. I—Oh, Paul, take me with you! I can be of some use over there. We will go together."
Paul rose and embraced her.
"My precious one! How Greenfield will honor you!"
Margaret winced and hid her face in his breast.