"Oh, I do thank you!" she said, piteously, "I would—if I could. I—I shall never care for any one else—but I can't—I can't."
He was silent a moment, and then said, taking her hands, and putting them to his lips—
"Won't you explain?"
"Yes, I'll try—I ought to. You see"—she looked up in anguish—"I'm not my own—to give—and I—No, no, I couldn't make you happy!"
"You mean—you're—you're too deeply pledged to this Society?"
He had dropped her hands, and stood looking at her, as if he would read her through.
"I must go up to town next week," she said hurriedly. "I must go, and I must do what Gertrude tells me. Perhaps—I can protect—save her. I don't know. I daresay I'm absurd to think so—but I might—and I'm bound. But I'm promised—promised in honour—and I can't—get free. I can't give up Gertrude—and you—you could never bear with her—or accept her. And so—you see—I should just make you miserable!"
He walked away, his hands in his pockets, and came back. Then suddenly he took her by the shoulders.
"You don't imagine I shall acquiesce in this!" he said passionately—"that I shall endure to see you tied and chained by a woman whom I know you have ceased to respect, and I believe you have ceased to love!"
"No!—no!—" she protested.