"To avoid a painful scene."
"But what should cause a painful scene—between us, Peregrine? Oh, my dear, what is it—what has changed you? Is it your illness?"
"Let us suppose so."
"Have you no—no other explanation to offer me?" she questioned wistfully and stood waiting my answer, drawing her riding gauntlet a little nervously through her ungloved hand, on the slender finger of which I saw the scarabaeus ring. "Is there, O Peregrine, is there no other explanation?"
"None!" said I savagely, my eyes on that accursed ring. "None!"
"Peregrine—dear," she questioned humbly, "have you learned to—to love one more—more worthy than I in my absence?"
"God forbid!" I answered. "Love has become for me a thing abhorred and utterly detestable."
"Then God help me," said she in strange, passionless voice, "for without your love I shall be desolate!"
"But you are so beautiful—so very beautiful you will never lack for comfort, you could find scores of noble suitors to-morrow eager and willing. So why talk of desolation?"
Now at this she shrank a little, staring at me with a dawning horror in her eyes.