“Pixie, don’t think about me ... think of yourself! I will leave it to you to tell your own story.—I have asked you to marry me, and you have refused. ... Tell them that ... tell them that you refused, that it was your doing, not mine—”
The glance of the grey eyes gave him a hot tingling of shame.
“You don’t understand,” said Pixie softly. “I am proud of being the faithful one! You don’t understand...” She laid her hand on the door, but Stanor stopped her with another question—
“And—Honor? What shall I say to Honor? She thinks so much of you. She’ll do nothing without your consent. Some day when she comes to London ... will you ... see her, Pixie?”
Pixie shook her head.
“It would hurt us both, and do no good. Give her my love. As for you—I can’t give her what is not mine. ... You belong to her, so there’s nothing more to be said. ... I hope you will make her happy.”
“I will—I will! At this moment I seem to you an unmitigated scoundrel, but things will be different. ... We shall settle in America. I will help her with her work. We’ll work together. I’d give my life for her ... I will give it! I’ll make amends...” He stood still, waiting as if there were still more to be said. “My uncle will be angry, but it is his doing. If it had not been for him, we should have been married years ago. He shouldn’t blame me for what he has brought about. His is the blame. If I see him—when I see him—can I say anything from you?”
“Tell him,” said Pixie clearly, “that I am grateful to him. His is the praise!”