"Yes."
"In spite of all it may involve—for Ladybird?"
"Yes."
The brief finality of her answers was curiously discouraging, and for the moment Desmond could think of nothing more to say.
He closed his eyes to concentrate thought and shut out the distracting vision of her bowed head. When he opened them again she was standing close to him—a white commanding figure, in a dusky cloak of hair reaching almost to her knees.
"Theo," she said softly, with an eloquent gesture of appeal, "you don't know how it hurts me to seem hard and unfeeling about Ladybird, when I understand so much too well the spirit that is prompting you to do this thing. I frankly confess you are right from your point of view. But there remains my point of view; and so long as I have the right to prevent it, you shall not spoil your life and hers."
Desmond would have been more, or less, than man if he could have heard her unmoved; and as he lay looking up at her he was tempted beyond measure to take possession of those appealing hands, to draw her down to him, and thank her from his heart for her brave words. But he merely shifted uneasily.
"I don't quite understand you, Honor," he said slowly. "It is strange that you should—care so much about what I do with my life."
The words startled her, yet she met them without flinching.