"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" she heard him say again—she did not know how often he had said it.
She released her hand and sat staring down at the rug at her feet. It was a Senna prayer rug, beautiful in coloring and soft as an autumn twilight in the tones, but she was looking back into the past—its lost opportunities and forsaken shrines....
Presently her glance shifted to Lorraine—and lingered, speculatively, appraisingly, as though casting up the balances. It swept him slowly from head to foot, pausing long upon his face—so long, indeed, that he shifted uneasily and smiled in self defence.
"Will you do it, Stephanie, dear?" he repeated.
She slowly shook her head.
"I cannot," she answered.
"Why can't you, dear?" he asked.
"Because I do not love you!"
"What has that to do with the question?" he replied. "Neither do I know that I love you—we must try——"
"I know," she interrupted; "you don't love me—and love is the one thing that could heal the wounds the past two years have made—for us both."