“Yes.” The affirmative was little more than a whisper.
“But,” it was his turn to hesitate, “it seems now that you are very wealthy; it is not necessary to carry out the bargain your uncle wished to force upon you.”
She did not answer at once. “I gave my word to him,” she murmured. “I cannot break faith with the dead.”
The ticking of the mantel clock was distinctly audible in the silence. Suddenly she spoke again, a catch in her voice.
“You hesitate—you do not wish to—to marry me?” she asked.
The hot color mounted to his brow and then receded.
“I only hesitate on your account,” he said. “In marrying me you will be tied to a blind man—a failure.”
She did not reply at once. Instead, Curtis heard her move backward a few steps and then a slight click sounded as an electric lamp was switched on. Anne turned and regarded Curtis gravely under its direct rays. There was none too much flesh even yet on the tall, straight figure, but the air of alertness and poise which had formerly been characteristic had returned to him. His face still bore traces of mental suffering, although its unyouthful sadness had been effaced.
“Because it is a bargain,” Curtis’ voice startled her from her contemplation of him, “I wish it to be a fair one. You are offering me the wherewithal to live. I can offer you nothing—”
“Perhaps,” she broke in swiftly, “I crave your friendship, your aid.”