"It is mean," he admitted through his compressed lips. "For that very reason, don't you see, I will take her beyond where it can touch her, at once, this very night,—if you will not help us!"
And all that she could do was to kiss him, the tears falling from her eyes.
"I will, Vick, dear…. It makes no difference to me what happens,—if you are only happy!"
* * * * *
As he drove to his father's house in the damp April night, he tried to think of the steps he must take on the morrow. He had acted irresistibly, out of the depths of his nature, unconcerned that he was about to tear in pieces the fabric of his life. It was not until he had let himself into the silent house and noiselessly passed his mother's door that he realized in sudden pain what it must mean to others.
He lay awake thinking, thinking. First of all she must telegraph for Delia to meet them somewhere,—she must have the child with her at once; and they must leave the city before Conry could find her and make trouble…. And he must tell the Colonel….
The next morning when Vickers entered his sister's library, Stacia Conry rose from the lounge where she had been lying reading a newspaper, and waited hesitantly while he came forward. She was very pretty this morning, with a faint touch of rose beneath her pale skin, her long lashes falling over fresh, shy eyes. In spite of it all she had slept, while the sleepless hours he had spent showed in his worn, white face. He put out his arms, and she clung to him.
"We must decide what to do," he said.
"You will not leave me?" she whispered, her head lying passive against his breast. Suddenly raising her head, she clasped her arms about his neck, drawing him passionately to her, crying, "I love you—love you,—you will never leave me?"
And the man looking down into her eyes answered from his heart in all truth:—