She suddenly stripped off her glove,
wrenched a ring set with brilliants from the third finger of her left hand, and, rising, threw it, straight as a young boy throws, far out into deepening twilight. It was the end of Mr. Frawley; he, too, had not only become a by-product but a good-by product. Yet his modest demands had merely required a tear a year! Perhaps he had not asked enough. Love pardons the selfish.
She was laughing, a trifle excited, as she turned to face him where he had risen. But, at the touch of his hand on hers, the laughter died at a breath, and she stood, her limp hand clasped in his, silent, expressionless, save for the tremor of her mouth.
“I—I must go,” she said, shrinking from him.
He did not understand, thrilled as he was by the contact, but he let her soft hand fall away from his.
Then with a half sob she caught her own fingers to her lips and kissed them where the pressure of his hand burned her white flesh—kissed them, looking at him.
“You—you find a child—you leave a woman,” she said unsteadily. “Do you understand how I love you—for that?”
He caught her in his arms.
“No—not yet—not my mouth!” she pleaded, holding him back; “I love you too much—already too much. Wait! Oh, will you wait?... And let me wait—make me wait?... I—I begin to understand some things I did not know an hour ago.”
In the dusk he could scarcely see her as she swayed, yielding, her arms tightening about his neck in the first kiss she had ever given or forgiven in all her life.