She slipped out of his arms. It was Floyd now coming between them, it wasn’t so easy to push him away. They had been friends so long. Floyd was the innocent victim. Martin’s eyes roved restlessly—and that gray mist—rising!—rising!
She waited for him to speak; then she went to him like a child, piteous, pathetic.
“Martin, don’t be angry with me—I love you—but the winter here is cold; the snow is like a winding sheet—I couldn’t bear it!”
She was wavering again; it brought him back, fiery, impatient—
“We will go to Lugano, Italy, Spain; you will get your divorce, I will marry you.”
“No! No!—there is no divorce in the Church—I am afraid of Father Cabello.”
Those fear thoughts—how they tore at her!
He took her in his arms, kissed her until the color came back to her face, the warmth to her body. She was his absolutely; he could make her do what he wanted—but—he mustn’t leave her.
Then she gave a sudden cry. It was like an animal in pain.
“What now? What now?”