"Why, Elizabeth!"
He had not meant to speak. The words were forced from him involuntarily. Her tone, her eyes, the eager earnestness in her voice.... He did not say any more, nor did he look at her. Instead he looked at the patchwork comforter which had fallen from his knees to the floor, and fervently hoped that he had not already said too much. He stooped and picked up the comforter.
"And you will do it for me, won't you?" she pleaded.
"I can't. It wouldn't be right."
"Then I shall not take the money at all. He gave it to me, he asked me—the very last thing he asked was that you should do it. He put the trust in your hands. And you won't do it—for him—or for me?"
"Well, but—but—— Oh, good Lord! how can I?"
"Why can't you?"
The real reason he could not tell her. According to Kent—whether inspired by Phillips or not made little difference—people were already whispering and hinting. How much more would they hint and whisper if they knew that he had taken charge of her money? The thought had not occurred to her, of course; the very idea was too ridiculous for her to imagine; but that made but one more reason why he must think for her.
"No," he said, again. "No, I can't."
"But why? You haven't told me why."