"What difference does it make, Kate?" His voice fell into a profound gloom. "What difference? I can't change myself. I'm what I am. It's in the blood. I was born to this. I can't help it. I know that I'll lose in the end. But while I live I'll be happy. A little while!"
She choked. But the sight of his drawing the cinches, the imminence of his departure, cleared her mind again.
"Give me two minutes," she begged.
"Not one," he answered. "Kate, you only make us both unhappy. Do you suppose I wouldn't change if I could?"
He came to her and took her hands.
"Honey, there are a thousand things I'd like to say to you, but being what I am, I have no right to say them to you—never, or to any other woman! I'm born to be what I am. I tell you, Kate, the woman who raised me, who was a mother to me, saw what I was going to be—and turned me out like a dog! And I don't blame her. She was right!"
She grasped at the straw of hope.
"Terry, that woman has changed her mind. You hear? She's lived heartbroken since she turned you out. And now she's coming for you to—to beg you to come back to her! Terry, that's how much she's given up hope in you!"
But he drew back, his face growing dark.
"You've been to see her, Kate? That's where you went when you were away those four days?"