"But you love him!" he said.
Sophie's eyes did not fail from his.
"I do," she said, "but I don't want to. I wish I didn't."
His hands fell from her. "Why," he asked, "why do you say you'll marry me, if you ... if——"
Despair and desperation were in the restive movement of Sophie's hands.
"I'm afraid of him," she said, "of the power of my love for him ... and there's no future that way. With you there is a future. I can work with you and Michael for the Ridge.... You know I do care for you too, Potch dear, and I want to have the sort of life that keeps a woman faithful ... to mend your clothes, cook your meals, and——"
Potch quivered to the suggestions she had evoked. He saw Sophie in a thousand tender associations—their home, the quiet course their lives might have together. He loved her enough for both, he told himself.
His conscience was not clear that he should take this happiness the gods offered him, even for the moment. And yet—he could not turn from it. Sophie had said she needed him; she wanted the home they would have together; all that their life in common would mean. And by and by—he stirred to the afterthought of her "and"—she wanted the children who might come to them.... Potch knew what Sophie meant when she said that she cared for him. Whatever else happened he knew he had her tenderest affection. She kissed him familiarly and with tenderness. It was not as Maud had kissed him, with passion, a soul-dying yearning. He drove the thought off. Maud was Maud, and Sophie Sophie; Maud's most passionate kisses had never distilled the magic for him that the slightest brush of Sophie's dress or fingers had.
Sophie took his hand.
"Potch," she said, "if you love me—if you want me to marry you, let us settle the thing this way.... I want to marry you.... I want to be your loving and faithful wife.... I'll try to be.... I don't want to think of anyone but you.... You may make me forget—if we are married, and get on well together. I hope you will——"