Her voice died away. Her fingers began fidgeting with the arm of the chair, her eyes bent upon them.
He looked at her a moment irresolute, his face working. Then he said huskily—
“In return—for that—I’ll tell you—I must tell you the real truth about myself. I don’t think you know me yet—and I don’t know myself. I’ve got a great brutal force in me somewhere—that wants to brush everything—that hinders me—or checks me—out of my path. I don’t know that I can control it—that I can make a woman happy. It’s an awful risk for you. Look at that poor fellow!” He flung out his hand towards that distant room whence came every now and then a fresh wave of music. “I didn’t intend to do him any bodily harm—”
“Of course not! It was an accident!” cried Connie passionately.
“Perhaps—strictly. But I did mean somehow to crush him—to make it precious hot for him—just because he’d got in my way. My will was like a steel spring in a machine—that had been let go. Suppose I felt like that again, towards—”
“Towards me?” Connie opened her eyes very wide, puckering her pretty brow.
“Towards some one—or something—you care for. We are certain to disagree about heaps of things.”
“Of course we are. Quite certain!”
“I tell you again”—said Falloden, speaking with a strong simplicity and sincerity that was all the time undoing the impression he honestly desired to make—“It’s a big risk for you—a temperament like mine—and you ought to think it over seriously. And then”—he paused abruptly in front of her, his hands in his pockets—“why should you—you’re so young!—start life with any burden on you? Why should you? It’s preposterous! I must look after Otto all his life.”
“So must I!” said Connie quickly. “That’s the same for both of us.”