"I think it is so," he said, steadily. "That is how I read it!"
She gave a sob—quickly repressed. Then she violently mastered herself.
"If it were true—I can't marry you. I won't be treacherous—nor a coward. And I won't ruin your life. Dear Mr. Mark—it's quite, quite impossible. Let's never talk of it again."
And straightening all her slender body, she faced him with that foolish courage, that senseless heroism, which women have so terribly at command.
So far, however from obliging her, he broke into a tempest of discussion bringing to bear upon her all the arguments that love or common sense dictated. If she really cared for him at all, if she even thought it possible she might care, was she going to refuse all help—all advice—from one to whom she had grown so dear?—to whom everything she did was now of such vital, such desperate importance? He pleaded for himself—guessing it to be the more hopeful way.
"It's been a lonely life, Delia, till you came! And now you've filled it. For God's sake, listen to me! Let me protect you, dear—let me advise you—trust yourself to me. Do you imagine I should want to dictate to you—or tyrannise over you? Do you imagine I don't sympathise with your faiths, your ideals—that I don't feel for women—what they suffer—what they endure—in this hard world? Delia, we'd work together!—it mightn't be always in the same way—nor always with the same opinions—but we'd teach—we'd help each other. Your own conscience—your own mind—I see it plainly—have turned against this horrible campaign—and the woman who's led you into it. How she's treated you! Would any friend, any real friend have left you alone through this Weston business? And you've given her everything—your house, your money, yourself! It makes me mad. I do implore you to break with her—as gently, as generously as you like—but free yourself! And then!"—he drew a long breath—"what a life we'd make together!" He sat down beside her. Under the strong overhanging brows, his grey eyes still pleaded with her—silently.
But she was just strong enough, alas!—the poor child!—to resist him. She scarcely replied; but her silence held the gate—against his onslaughts. And at last she tottered to her feet.
"Mr. Mark—dear Mr. Mark!—let me go!"
Her voice, her aspect struck him dumb. And before he could rally his forces again, the door shut, and she was gone.