He described the talk of the little Swedish lady, and that evening on the heights when he had first heard her name.
"Next day came the lawyers' letter—and yours—both in a bundle."
"You'll agree—I did all I could—to put you off!"
"So I understood—at once. You never beat about the bush."
There was a tender laughter in his voice. But she had not the heart to spar with him. He felt rather than saw her drooping. Alarm—anxiety—rushed upon him, mingled in a tempest-driven mind with all that Madeleine Tonbridge, in the Maumsey drawing-room, had just been saying to him. That had been indeed the plain speaking of a friend!—attacking his qualms and scruples up and down, denouncing them even; asking him indignantly, who else could save this child—who else could free her from the sordid entanglement into which her life had slipped—but he? "You—you only, can do it!" The words were still thundering through his blood. Yet he had not meant to listen to his old friend. He had indeed withstood her firmly. But this sad and languid Delia began, again, to put resistance to flight—to tempt—to justify him—driving him into action that his cooler will had just refused.
Suddenly, as they walked under the overshadowing trees of the drive, her ungloved hand hanging beside her, she felt it taken, enclosed in a warm strong clasp. A thrill, a shiver ran through her. But she let it stay. Neither spoke. Only as they neared the front door with the lamp, she softly withdrew her fingers.
There was no one in the drawing-room, which was scented with early hyacinths, and pleasantly aglow with fire-light. Winnington closed the door, and they stood facing each other. Delia wanted to cry out—to prevent him from speaking—but she seemed struck dumb.
He approached her.
"Delia!"
She looked at him still helplessly silent. She had thrown off her hat and furs, and, in her short walking-dress, she looked singularly young and fragile. The change which had tempered the splendid—or insolent—exuberance of her beauty, which Lathrop had perceived, had made it in Winnington's eyes infinitely more appealing, infinitely more seductive. Love and fear, mingled, had "passed into her face," like the sculptor's last subtle touches on the clay.
"Delia!" How all life seemed to have passed into a name! "I'm not sure that I ought to speak! I'm not sure it's fair. It—it seems like taking advantage. If you think so, don't imagine I shall ever press it again. I'm twenty years older than you—I've had my youth. I thought everything was closed for me—but—" He paused a moment—then his voice broke into a low cry—"Dear! what have you done to make me love you so?"