"There is no time to talk now. But you shall not go out into the wilderness of life, if you are afraid."
She pressed her face closer to him—in answer.
"If you want to, if you care to—come to me, I shall not refuse you a home. You understand?"
She did fully understand. Her mother's letter had made it clearer than ever to her that marriage with somebody sufficiently well off is a haven of refuge for a woman, a port to be steered for with all available strength.
Suddenly and unexpectedly Gwen had found herself in harbour, and the stormy sea passed.
"Run up to your room now," he said, "and bathe your face and come down to the drawing-room as if nothing had happened."
He did not kiss her. A thought, such as only disturbs a man of scrupulous honour, came to him. He was so much older than she was that she must have time to think—she must come to him and ask for what he could give her—not, as she was just now—convulsed with grief; she must come quietly and confidently and with her mind made up. There must be no working upon her emotions, no urgency of his own will over a weaker will; no compulsion such as a strong man can exercise over a weak woman.
He pushed her gently away, and she raised her head, smiling through her tears and murmuring something: what was it? Was it "Thanks;" but she did not look him in the face, she dare not meet those narrow blue eyes that were bent upon her.
He stood watching her as she moved lightly to the door. There she turned back, and even then she did not raise her eyes to his face, but she smiled a strange bewildered smile into the air and fled.
It was really she who had conquered, and with such feeble weapons.