The girl held her breath, nerving herself for a last desperate stand.
"Forgive me, if you know how, Theo," she said; "but I cannot—I will not give up my right to save you from yourself."
Desmond simply raised his head and looked at her, as though he could not believe that he had heard aright; and when at last he spoke, his voice had the level note of authority which she had been dreading to hear.
"At the risk of seeming brutal, Honor, I warn you that I'll not give you one minute's peace till you unsay those words—for Ladybird's sake."
Then, to his unspeakable consternation, she took a step backward and sank into the chair behind her, pressing both hands over her eyes.
"Do whatever you think right," she murmured brokenly. "You are too strong for me altogether."
There are victories more bitter than defeat; and Desmond had no words in which to answer this girl, who cared so strangely, so intensely, much what became of him.
When a woman breaks down utterly in the presence of the man who loves her—whether he dare acknowledge it or no—words are not apt to meet the exigencies of the case; and Desmond had no other panacea at his command. He could only stand looking down upon her, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, as if he feared that they might go out to her of their own accord; his eyes darkened with such intensity of pain that it was well for both that hers were shielded from sight of them.
He longed, beyond all things on earth, to kneel down and comfort her. He knew that three words from him would put an end to her distress, and cancel his own quixotic plan of action. But the words were not uttered; and he remained standing on the hearth-rug with his hands in his pockets. There was no sign in the quiet room that anything noteworthy had taken place. Yet on those two prosaic details the future of three lives depended—a man silent when he might have spoken; planted squarely on his feet when he might have been on his knees.