“What do you offer for what you ask? And do you still ask it? Is it me you are asking me for? Because you love me? And what do you give—love?”
“Weigh it with the—other,” he said.
“I have—often—every moment since I have known you. And what a winter!” Her voice was almost inaudible. “What a winter—without you!”
“That hell is ended for me, too. Sylvia, I know what I ask. And I ask. I know what I offer. Will you take it?”
“Yes,” she said.
He rose, blindly. She stood up, pale, wide-eyed, confronting him, stammering out the bargain:
“I take all—all! every virtue, every vice of you. I give all—all! all I have been, all I am, all I shall be! Is that enough? Oh, if there were only more to give! Stephen, if there were only more!”
Her hands had fallen into his, and they looked each other in the eyes.
Suddenly, through the hush of the enchanted moment, a sullen sound broke—the sound of a voice they knew, threateningly raised, louder and louder, growling, profanely menacing.
Aghast, they turned in the darkness, peering toward the lighted space beyond. Leroy Mortimer, his face shockingly congested, stood unsteadily balancing there, confronting his wife, who sat staring at him in horror. At the same instant Plank rose and laid a hand on Mortimer's shoulder, but Mortimer shook him off with a warning oath.