"I'll wait for it here. Did I wake you coming in?"
"I was not asleep; only lazy, warm, and quiet."
"And deadly tired;—dear soul, how can it be otherwise, leading the life you lead."
There was such compassion in his voice, such affection in his eye, such fostering kindliness in the touch of the hand he laid upon her own, that Sylvia cried within herself,—"Oh, if Geoffrey would only come!" and hoping for that help to save her from herself, she hastily replied—
"You are mistaken, Adam,—my life is easier than I deserve,—my husband makes me very—"
"Miserable,—the truth to me, Sylvia."
Warwick rose as he spoke, closed the door and came back wearing an expression which caused her to start up with a gesture of entreaty—
"No no, I will not hear you! Adam, you must not speak!"
He paused opposite her, leaving a little space between them, which he did not cross through all that followed, and with that look, inflexible yet pitiful, he answered steadily—
"I must speak and you will hear me. But understand me, Sylvia, I desire and design no French sentiment nor sin like that we heard of, and what I say now I would say if Geoffrey stood between us. I have settled this point after long thought and the heartiest prayers I ever prayed; and much as I have at stake, I speak more for your sake than my own. Therefore do not entreat nor delay, but listen and let me show you the wrong you are doing yourself, your husband, and your friend."