He had listened in terrified silence to every word. Now he took her hands and lifted her gently to her feet.
"Do not kneel to me, little saint," he said sadly, and looked into her eyes.
They could not meet his. The long lashes drooped and shadowed her cheek. Then he asked gently:
"Would you build Ethel's happiness on the wreck of yours and mine, my darling?"
"You must not call me your darling, you must not think of me. I am only a child, she says, too young to know what love is like. So," wearily, "you see there is no question of me. It is only you and Ethel—two lovers who have quarreled, and must make it up again."
"Never! never!" he cried angrily. "She released me of her own free will—flung me off in scorn."
"She repents! She prays you to return! Oh, Arthur, go!"
"You can send me back to her! Ah, then, indeed, I dreamed a vain dream. You never loved me, never!"
"Go then, for pity's sake, return to unhappy Ethel, and save her heart from breaking!" she sobbed miserably.
"And sacrifice my own!" he muttered, in the hoarse tones of despair.