“You must send Hugh away at once,” Stephen told her abruptly.
“Must? Do you think to force me to do as you wish?”
“Yes.”
She had spoken insolently, and he was white to his lips. He loved her, all his life he had loved her; and she knew it. An older woman would have spared him a little, because of that love, because of his pain. Helen hit him again. She went a step nearer, and laughed in his face—a taunting laugh of scorn and dislike.
There was a bitter pause, and then Stephen spoke more carefully, groping to retrieve somewhat the ground his passion had lost.
“You don’t seem to realize that Hugh is in a very dangerous position. If—if some one should inform the authorities of his whereabouts——”
“Inform the authorities?” she repeated his words wonderingly. He had not meant to say them, and already regretted them. He bit his lip. Suddenly their meaning dawned on her.
“Stephen,” her voice was stiff with horror, horror of him, not fear for Hugh. “You wouldn’t do that?”
“I!” he said thickly. “I—no—no—no.”
“I’d hate you, if you did that,” Helen said quietly. Pryde realized how much too far he had gone. He owed his place in the world to this girl’s favor, his hope, still ardent, to fulfill the dreams he had dreamt as a boy, watching the birds; he could not afford to incur her enmity. If love was lost, ambition remained. Fool, fool that he was to imperil that too. He changed his tone, and said shiftily—