“I couldn’t bear it,” she repeated.
“You wouldn’t be fool enough to throw Jethro over? You wouldn’t come with me to London and take pot luck—a knight’s wife some day, perhaps, or only the starving wife of—a number. I mean to be careful—but failure’s on the cards. Even men like Milligan come a cropper now and then. I’ve heard shaky stories about him. He doesn’t know when to stop.”
His eyes were shining. Something of the old passion was stamping itself anew on his face. She was looking lovely—the daredevil expression of perfect abandonment and sacrifice strong on her mouth, on her quickly-breathing body, on the very hands which shook in the lap of her white gown.
“You wouldn’t come?” he said, under his breath.
She gave a quick sigh, a last sharp glance at the gray, gently-moving uplands and the wreaths of dog-roses.
“I would go with you—anywhere. I would have gone with you to the prison, been a number, a thing less than an animal behind the prison wall—but they wouldn’t let me.”
He put his mouth to hers.
“Dear little woman! In India you’d go to the Suttee. Then it is settled. Tackle Jethro to-night.”