“Can’t you understand—won’t you understand that I’m throwing myself at you, King? Have I got to make myself plain?”
“Don’t,” he said hastily.
“What do I care? It’s my last chance. Listen, King: Say the word, and I’m yours. It’s you I want—it’s you. You’ve made me say it—I don’t care. Think of me what you want, but if you’ll as much as wave your little finger at me, King, I’ll follow—and that’s flat!”
She stopped breathlessly and waited the answer which was forming in his mind.
“Well?” she said, at last, and her hand stole out and lay over his.
“You should not have said it,” he mumbled, “you ain’t in your right mind.”
“That’s not the answer I want,” she said abruptly. “King, give it to me straight. Is it to be me and you—or——”
“You’re right, Myrtle,” he said, frowning; “I’ve got to hand it out straight. Well, I’m sorry. It can’t be.”
“You’re saying that because you’re only thinking of the money, because you think it’s too big an opportunity for me, that you oughtn’t to stand in my way. Don’t you think I’m flesh and blood? You don’t think I can forget that—that time you took me in your arms——”
“I shouldn’t have done it!”