"We must never talk to each other like this again," she said gently, after a little pause. "We must try and understand each other—the real things in each other's lives.—Don't lay a great remorse on me, Sir George!—don't spoil your future, and your wife's—don't give up Parliament! You have great, great gifts! All this will seem just a passing misunderstanding—both to you—and me—by and by. We shall learn to be—real friends—you and we—together?"
She looked at him appealing—her face one prayer.
But he, flushing, shook his head.
"I must not come into your world," he said huskily. "I must go."
The wave of grief rolled upon her again. She turned away, looking across the room with wide dim eyes, as though asking for some help that did not come.
Tressady walked quickly back to the chair where he had been sitting, and took up his hat and gloves. Suddenly, as he looked back to her, he struck one of the gloves across his hand.
"What a coward—what a mean whining wretch I was to come to you this morning! I said to myself—like a hypocrite—that I could come—and go—without a word. My God—if I had!"—the low hoarse voice became a cry of pain—"I might still have taken some joy—"
He wrestled with himself.
"It was mad selfishness," he said at last, recovering himself by a fierce effort. "Mad it must have been—or I could never have come here to give you pain. Some demon drove me. Oh, forgive me!—forgive me! Good-bye! I shall bless you while I live. But you—you must never think of me, never speak of me—again."
She felt his grasp upon her fingers. He stooped, passionately kissed her hand and a fold of her dress. She rose hurriedly; but the door had closed upon him before she had found her voice or choked down the sob in her throat.