"A great difference," he repeated hoarsely. He smeared the dampness from his mouth and chin. "If—if my reputation were made now, Mary, I should ask you to be my wife."
And then she did not speak. There was an instant in which the wall swam before her in a haze, and the floor lurched. In the next, she was still fronting the fireplace; she was staring at it with the same intentness of regard; and his voice was sounding again, though she heard it dully:
"—while a poor due can't choose! I would—I'd ask you to marry me. I know what you've been to me—I don't forget—I know very well! But, as it is, it'd be madness—it'd be putting a rope round my own neck. I want you to hear how I'm situated. I want you to listen to the circumstances——"
"You won't ... make amends?"
"I tell you I'm not my own master."
"You tell me that—that we're to part! We can't remain together any longer unless I'm your wife."
"We can't remain together any longer at all; that's what I'm coming to." He went back to the mantelpiece, and leant his elbows on it, kicking the half-hot coals. "I'm going to marry Miss Westland!"
He had said it; the echo of the utterance sung in his ears. Behind him her figure was motionless—its its—stillness frightened him. Intensified by the riotous ticking of the clock, through which his pulses were strained for the relief of a rustle, a breath, the pause grew unendurable.
"For God's sake, why don't you say something?" he exclaimed. He faced her impetuously, and they looked at each other across the table. "Mary, it's my chance in life! She cares for me, don't you see? You think me a scoundrel—don't you see what a chance it is? What can I come to as I am? With her—she'll get on, she has money—I shall rise, I shall be a manager, I shall get to London in time. Mary!"
"You're going to ... marry Miss Westland?"