"Ah, but give it up!" she pleaded. "If you can't, I mustn't come here any more, nor you to us. And why? It would be such a waste—of what our friendship might be. You could teach me so many things. I think I could teach you some."
He dropped her hands, mastering himself with difficulty.
"It's nonsense," he said shortly; "I know it's nonsense! But—if I promised not to say anything of this kind again for a year?"
She pondered. There were compunctions, remorses, in her. As Susan had warned her, was she playing with a man's heart and life?
But her trust in her own resources, the zest of spiritual adventure, and a sheer longing to comfort him prevailed.
"You'll promise that; and I'll promise—just to be as nice to you as ever I can!" She paused. They looked at each other; the trouble in his eyes questioning the smile in hers. "Now please!—my friend!"—she slid dexterously, though very softly, into the everyday tone—"will you advise me? Mr. Delorme has asked me to sit to him. Just a sketch in the garden—for a picture he's at work on. You would like me to accept?"
She stood before him, her eyes raised, with the frank gentleness of a child. Yet there was a condition implied in the question.
Tatham broke out—passionately,
"Just tell me. There's—there's no one else?"
She suffered for him; she hastened to comfort him.