But Arthur knew that he must not linger in idle dalliance, that he must break away from the spell of her beauty, that because he was a man, and the stronger one of the two, that for her own sake his hand must break the bonds of loving.
He said tremulously, though he tried to make his voice firm:
“You must not be angry with me, Cinthia, if I may call you so, for what I am going to say.”
She answered not a word, she only trembled like a reed in the wind.
Not all her pride, nor all her scorn of his weakness, could make her indifferent to Arthur Varian.
He continued, in that low, sad voice:
“We have put the past away forever, have we not Cinthia?”
What a strange question that was. It made her heart leap with a strangled hope. Did he wish to go back to that past, regretting his folly, craving her pardon and her love again?
She flashed him such a swift, startled glance that, misinterpreting it, he cried out, quickly:
“Ah, I knew that you could never forgive me. I could never dare to ask it. It is not for myself I wish to plead, but for another.”