Still she did not speak. Was it that his mere voice, the familiar torrent of words, was delightful to her?—that she cared very little what he said, so long as he was there, living, breathing, pleading before her?—that, like Sidney, she could have cried to him: 'Say on, and all well said, still say the same'?
But he meant to be answered. He came close to her.
'We have been comrades, Eleanor—fellow-workers—friends. You have come to know me as perhaps no other woman has known me. I have shown you a thousand faults. You know all my weaknesses. You have a right to despise me as an unstable, egotistical, selfish fool; who must needs waste other people's good time and good brains for his own futile purposes. You have a right to think me ungrateful for the kindest help that ever man got. You have a right as Miss Foster's friend—and perhaps, guessing as you do at some of my past history,—to expect of me probation and guarantees. You have a right to warn her how she gives away anything so precious as herself. But you have not a right to inflict on me such suffering—such agony of mind—as you have imposed on me the last six weeks! I deny it, Eleanor—I deny it altogether! The punishment, the test goes beyond—far beyond—your right and my offences!'
He calmed—he curbed himself.
'The reckoning has come, Eleanor. I ask you to pay it.'
She drew a long breath.
'But I can't go at that pace. You must give me time.'
He turned away in a miserable impatience.
She closed her eyes and thought a little, 'Now'—she said to herself—'now is the time for lying. It must be done. Quick! no scruples!'
And aloud: