"You are vexed—angry. Pray calm yourself. I remember what you had to say about him, there on the steamer, coming up from Aden. You loved him then."
"But now—Oh, how could he? How could he?"
The Englishman failed to understand the real cause of her half-frenzied anger and despair—the thought that Blake had ruined himself deliberately. "But don't you see it was not weakness? He proved it when he shattered the glass. His hand was cut and bleeding. He has proved that he can master that craving. I've sought to explain how it was. It is not yet too late. A word from you would save him, a single word!"
"No. It is too late. I can't see it as you do. It was weakness—weakness! I cannot believe otherwise."
"Yet—if you love him?"
"James, it is generous of you—noble!—when you yourself—"
"That's quite out of it now. It's of him I am thinking, and of you."
"Never of yourself!" she murmured. She looked down for a short moment. When she again raised her eyes, she had regained her usual quiet composure. She spoke seriously and with a degree of formality: "Lord Avondale, when you honored me with your offer, you asked me to wait before giving you a final answer."
He was completely taken unawares. "I—I—To be sure. But I cannot permit you—Your happiness is my first consideration."
"It is that disregard of self, that generosity, which enables me to speak. As I told you, I can now give you no more than the utmost of my esteem and affection. But if you are willing to take that as a beginning, perhaps, later on, I may be able to return your love as you deserve."