“Undo a little of what you have done—give me back those papers—”
“It is impossible,” he said. “Impossible, you may say what you will of me—”
“I have nothing to say,” she answered unsteadily. “I have dangerous stuff in me—I know it now. I shall not use a woman’s means if you push me too far—I have it in me to pull your fortunes about your feet if you should prove too merciless—”
He smiled imperiously.
“I think you, too, did some lying,” he said. “You used strong words to one you talk now of ruining—and half I thought you did not mean—”
But Delia interrupted him. “You lie now,” she said in a stifled voice. “You know I meant it, meant it so that it touched you even through your falsity.”
“Believe I was not insincere—only reckless of the future,” he answered in a lower voice. “I did not play with you—”
“I need no explanations,” she cried passionately. “Have I not said that I have lived through it? Can I not also be reckless and thank you for the pleasant passing of an hour—can I not, too, forget?”
“I have not forgotten,” said the Master of Stair. “Should I have seen you now if I had? I make no excuses. What I have done I have done, but I have not forgotten.”
“No,” answered Delia. “I do not think you can, and so I come to you to ask your mercy.” She moved a step toward him, her head held back, her face composed and very pale in the shadow of her hat.