Her lips trembled.
'I don't want to desert you, but—what right have I to such comfort—such luxury—when other people are suffering and toiling?'
He raised his eyebrows.
'Luxury? This little room? And there you sit sewing and knitting all day! And I'll be bound you don't eat enough to keep a sparrow!'
There was silence. She was saying to herself—'Shall I ever be able to go?—to break with them all?' The thought, the image, of George flashed again through her mind. But why was it so much fainter, so much less distinct than it had been an hour ago? Yet she seemed to turn to him, to beg him piteously to protect her from something vague and undefined.
Suddenly a low voice spoke—
'Nelly!—don't go!'
She looked up—startled—her childish eyes full of tears.
He held out his hand, and she could not help it, she yielded her own.
Farrell's look was full of energy, of determination. He drew nearer to her, still holding her hand. But he spoke with perfect self-control.