"Do you think I forgot?" she cries, flashing round upon him with sudden, tempestuous anger. "I did not. My marriage was in a way forced upon me by my mother. You knew it, then. Why do you say such things to me now? Am I not wretched enough?"
Her voice breaks into a faint sob, and all his heart melts at a sign of grief from her.
"Are you wretched?" he says softly. "Oh, my poor darling, not half so wretched as I. When you gave yourself away from me you little knew what you did. I think I have never known one happy moment since—nor ever shall again."
"Why do you tell me this? Is it any use?" falters Lauraine.
"I don't know," he says wearily. "I thought, perhaps, you might pity me—be a little sorry for your work."
"Oh, don't talk like that," she entreats, lifting two soft tear-wet eyes to the young, haggard, reproachful face before her. "Pity you—do you think I am a stone; that I have no feeling?"
"Then you are sorry—a little sorry," he says, coming nearer. "Well, that is some consolation. But I can't live on that. I want something more. I don't care how badly you think of me, Lauraine. After to-night I suppose I have just done for myself, but I will hear you say what your eyes told me a little while ago—say you love me."
His arms are wrapped around the slender, trembling figure—he holds her closely to his breast and looks down, down, into her eyes with all the fire and passion of his impulsive nature burning in his own. As she meets that look the blood flies like flame through her veins. She feels escape is impossible.
"Don't ask me," she whispers faintly.
His look never changes. "Answer me," he says.