"You shall not do that!" she said—anger, fear, determination vibrating in her low tone.
Then, to her astonishment, she found her own hand crushed in his, with a force that brought tears into her eyes. But he remained silent; and she neither spoke nor stirred. Emotion dominated her; and her whole mind was concentrated on the effort to hold it in leash.
For one brief instant they stood thus upon the brink of a precipice—the precipice of mutual knowledge. But both were safeguarded by the strength that belongs to an upright spirit; and before three words could have been uttered Desmond had dropped her hand, almost throwing it from him, with a decisiveness that might have puzzled her, but that she had passed beyond the region of surprise.
Still neither spoke. Desmond was breathing with the short gasps of a man who has ran a great way, or fought a hard fight; and Honor remained beside him, her eyes blinded, her throat aching with tears that must not be allowed to fall.
At last she mastered them sufficiently to risk speech.
"What have I done that you should treat me—like this?"
There was more of bewilderment than of reproach in the words, and Desmond, turning his head, saw the white marks made by his own fingers upon the hand that hung at her side.
"Done?" he echoed, all constraint and coldness gone from his voice. "You have simply proved yourself, for the hundredth time—the staunchest, most long-suffering woman on God's earth. Will you forgive me, Honor? Will you wipe out what I said—and did just now? I am not quite—myself to-day; if one dare proffer an excuse. Mackay is right, we can't do without you—Evelyn least of any. Will you believe that, and stay with us, in spite of all?"
He proffered his hand now, and she gave him the one that still tingled from his pressure. He held it quietly, closely, as the hand of a friend, and was rewarded by her frank return of his grasp.