"It's impossible, Elaine!"
She stood for a moment regarding him with steady gaze. A long, tense silence lay between them. Then she spoke, quietly, and with a dignity that somehow wrung John's heart.
"Then all your protestations of love for me mean nothing at all!"
"They mean everything," said John, in the same low tone.
"And yet you repulse me as if you hated me?"
"I don't mean to act cruelly."
"If you had any regard for me at all, you'd stay. It isn't the first time, Bernard, that you—you've humiliated me!"
John looked into her face that had grown suddenly tragic. He saw in a moment how completely justified she was in her attitude. He had protested his love for her only a few minutes earlier, and had then snatched at something that must have seemed to her the thinnest of excuses for hurrying away—for leaving her.
"If you loved me really, Bernard, you'd stay." Her voice was very low. "However, I have suffered the humiliation of your refusal. I shall not make the same mistake again." She turned and walked slowly towards the door. John saw that she could scarcely restrain her tears; her head was uplifted—she was superb in her dignity. For the life of him John could not refrain from striding a few paces towards her.
"Elaine!" he implored, in a voice that rang with emotion. "Don't misjudge me. And as for humiliating you, I'd do anything in the world rather than do that! Look here, Elaine, you think I don't love you?"