David was there. A wave of pain, of self-shame, of infinite regret, swept through him. For a moment, while he tried to get hold of himself, he looked down into the quivering, passionate, tear-lit face; then he took the hands outstretched to him.
"Kate," he said imploringly, "I'm so sorry—so sorry! Forget me. I am nobody—nothing."
"I love you!"
"Think how poor I am, how far down."
"I love you!"
The low tensity of that iterated cry shamed out of existence all evasive reasons—drove David straight to what he thought his uttermost answer. "Forgive me," he said, sick with loathing of himself. "But you've forced me to say it.... I don't love you."
"I love you!"
She had paled at his words, and her cry was only a whispered gasp; but her fixed upward gaze, passionate, appealing, mandatory, did not waver an instant. David had but one word left—and that, he had thought, was to be forever unspoken. But it had to be spoken now. After a moment, in which her face seemed to swim before him, he said, huskily:
"I love someone else."
She drew suddenly back, there was a sharp indrawing of the breath, the face hardened, the eyes above the fur neckpiece gleamed fiercely.