Henri stood still, swaying a little.
"And you love him? More than you care for me?"
"He is—he is my kind," said Sara Lee rather pitifully. "I am not what you think me. You see me here, doing what you think is good work, and you are grateful. And you don't see any other women. So I—"
"And you think I love you because I see no one else?" he demanded, still rather stunned.
"Isn't that part of it?"
He flung out his hands as though he despaired of making her understand.
"This man at home—" he said bitterly; "this man who loves you so well that he let you cross the sea and come here alone—do you love him very dearly?"
"I am promised to him."
All at once Sara Lee saw the little parlor at home, and Harvey, gentle, rather stolid and dependable. Oh, very dependable. She saw him as he had looked the night he had said he loved her, rather wistful and very, very tender. She could not hurt him so. She had said she was going back to him, and she must go.
"I love him very much, Henri."