He put her, whether she would or no, into an arm-chair and knelt beside her.
"Did you think it was hardly kind," he said with a quiver of voice he could not repress, "to let me hear for the first time, in public, that you had promised to go to one of that man's meetings after refusing again and again to come to any of mine?"
"Do you want to forbid me to go?" she said quickly. There was a feeling in her which would have been almost relieved, for the moment, if he had said yes.
"By no means," he said steadily. "That was not our compact. But—guess for yourself what I want! Do you think"—he paused a moment—"do you think I put nothing of myself into my public life—into these meetings among the people who have known me from a boy? Do you think it is all a convention—that my feeling, my conscience, remain outside? You can't think that! But if not, how can I bear to live what is to be so large a part of my life out of your ken and sight? I know—I know—you warned me amply—you can't agree with me. But there is much besides intellectual agreement possible—much that would help and teach us both—if only we are together—not separated—not holding aloof—"
He stopped, watching all the changes of her face. She was gulfed in a deep wave of half-repentant feeling, remembering all his generosity, his forbearance, his devotion.
"When are you speaking next?" she half whispered. In the dim light her softened pose, the gentle sudden relaxation of every line, were an intoxication.
"Next week—Friday—at Gairsly. Hallin and Aunt Neta are coming."
"Will Miss Raeburn take me?"
His grey eyes shone upon her, and he kissed her hand.
"Mr. Hallin won't speak for you!" she said, after the silence, with a return of mischief.