He looked down upon her gravely, his dark pointed face quivering a little. Instinctively she drew back. Her expression changed.
"I can't do that." His voice was low but firm. "I feel the call to me. And after all, Melrose has claims on me. To me, personally, his generosity—has been incredible. He is old—and ill. I must stay by him."
Her mind cried out, "Yes—but on your own terms, not his!"
But she did not say it. Her pride came to her aid. She sprang up, a glittering animation flashing back into her face, transforming its softness, its tenderness.
"I understand—I quite understand. Thank you for being so plain—and bearing with my—strange ideas. Now—I don't think we can be of any further use to each other—though—" she clasped her hands involuntarily—"I shall always hope and pray—"
She did not finish. He broke into a cry.
"Lydia! you send me away?"
"I don't accept your conditions—nor you mine. There is no more to be said."
He looked at her sombrely, remorse struggling with his will. But also anger—the anger of a naturally arrogant temperament—that he should find her so resistant.
"If you loved me—"