Delia put her hand to her forehead in a listless weary manner as if the life had died within her.
“So—you bargain, Sir John,” she said. “And I—I have no choice between a duty and a sentiment—give me my friends.”
“It is a high price,” he answered with a sudden smile. “Those papers against your silence.”
“Burn them—burn them,” cried Delia. “Let me see them burnt.”
He laughed.
“Why, I shall keep them,” he answered, “and if you speak I shall send them to His Majesty—but while you are silent you are safe—you have my word for that.”
“Your word!” she echoed, “your word!”
“It is as good as that of other men,” he said, “at least you must take it—or if not—well—speak and the papers go to the King.”
He turned on his heel abruptly as if suddenly weary of the situation and crossed the room to an inner door which he swept through without a backward look, and closed heavily behind him.
Delia came slowly from her place to where he had stood; slowly she drew her right glove off and with her bare hand timidly touched the marble chimneypiece; then her fingers fell to the spot where his had rested and she caressed the wreathed faun lightly. Her face was flushed and enthralled; fierce suppressed sobs rose in her throat; she stooped at last and set her lips to the cold marble, rested her cheek against it an instant, then drew herself erect, scarlet with shame.