“Because I ask you, David—David, because I ask you.”
Mary’s voice trembled and fell to a quivering whisper.
Suddenly David pushed her away. He turned and made a stumbling step towards the fireplace. His hands gripped the narrow mantelshelf. His eyes stared at the wall. And from the wall Mary’s eyes looked back at him from the miniature of Mary’s mother. There was a long minute’s silence. Then David swung round. His face was flushed, his eyes looked black.
“If I do it can you hold your tongues?” he said in a rough, harsh voice.
Mary drew a deep soft breath of relief. She had won. Her hands dropped to her side, her whole figure relaxed, her face became soft and young again.
“O David, God bless you!” she cried.
David frowned. His brows made a dark line across his face. Every feature was heavy and forbidding.
“Can you hold your tongues?” he repeated. “Do you understand—do you fully understand that if a word of this is ever to get out it’s just sheer ruin to the lot of us? Do you grasp that?”
Elizabeth Chantrey got up. She crossed the room, and stood at David’s side, nearly as tall as he.
“Don’t do it, David,” she said, with a sudden passion in her voice.