"Are you alone?" he asked, looking up at where she stood, motionless, by the mantelpiece.
"Absolutely," she answered, in a cold, hard voice. "And you know it."
"How could I know it? I got your telegram, and came at once. Marion, you are speaking to me in a tone I am unused to from you."
"Ay," she said, "I am unused to my own voice in its present tone. I am risking much for you, and you do not deserve that I should risk anything for you."
"Marion," he cried, half-rising, "you have not left him? You have not resolved to throw your fate in with mine at last? Marion, my darling! Marion, let me come to you."
"Stay where you are," she said, in a tone of perplexity, and with a shudder. "If you move from that chair, it must only be for the door. Remember this once for all."
"You are very hard, Marion--very hard. It is a long day since we met, and now you will not even give me your hand. You would give your hand to the most ordinary friend you have: think of what we were once."
His voice had a firm, manly, straightforward ring in it, and withal an undertone of passionate entreaty.
"I have thought too much of what has been once. I have thought too much of what was between you and me long ago. I have another matter to think of to-night."
"And what is that, Marion?"