“Shame?” he repeated vaguely.
“Yes—this treachery to myself—when I cannot hope to be more to you—when I dare not love you too much!”
“You must dare, Sylvia!”
“No, no, no! I know myself, I tell you. I cannot give up what is offered—for you!—dearly, dearly as I do love you!” She turned and caught his hands in hers, flushed, trembling, unstrung. “I cannot—I simply cannot! How can you love me and listen to such wickedness? How can you still care for such a girl as I am—worse than mercenary, because I have a heart—or had, until you took it! Keep it; it is the only part of me not all ignoble.”
“I will keep it—in trust,” he said, “until you give yourself with it.”
But she only shook her head wearily, withdrawing her hands from his, and for a time they sat silent, eyes apart.
Then—“There is another reason,” she said wistfully.
He looked up at her, hesitated, and—“My habits?” he asked simply.
“Yes.”
“I have them in check.”