“I don’t know—yet.”
There was a world of meaning in the last word. And as she uttered it, she turned her hollow eyes full upon her questioner. Ross saw the soul-hunger reflected in her face—and he started. Their eyes met. She dropped her white lids, and the hot blood mantled her pale cheeks. An embarrassing silence fell upon them. He was the first to speak.
“Amy,” he murmured softly, “I want to help you—I want to be kind to you——”
Passionately she caught his hand in both of hers, and whispered—all her soul in her voice and manner:
“Ross—Ross! Listen to me! Say that you’ll take me away from here—to a place where George Hilliard can never find us—where we can begin life over and——”
The look in his eyes repelled her advances; and breaking off in the middle of the sentence, she trembled and was silent.
Gently but firmly withdrawing his hand from her clinging clasp, he said—almost sternly:
“Amy, what you have in mind can never be. I loved Amy Larkin tenderly and truly. Amy Hilliard I have no right to love!”
For a moment she stared at him, as though she did not comprehend. Then, with a groan, she fell back upon the bed and, hiding her face, burst into tears.
Ross was greatly moved. He pitied her sincerely; yet he felt that he had done right in telling her the truth. Now he bent over her and whispered soothingly: