But he had grown afraid, horribly afraid. All the cowardice in him was in the ascendant. But that passed; watching his worn face, she saw it passing. Fear clutched at her; for the first time in her life she desired to go to him, hold fast to him, seeking in contact the reassurance of his strength; but she only stood straighter, a little paler, already half divining in the clairvoyance of her young soul what lay still hidden.
"Do you ask a part in this?" he said at last.
"I ask it."
"Why?"
Her eyes wavered, then returned his gaze:
"For love of you," she said, as white as death.
He caught his breath sharply and straightened out, passing one hand across his eyes. When she saw his face again in the dim light it was ghastly.
"There was a woman," he said, "for whom I was once responsible." He spoke wearily, head bent, resting the weight of one arm on the table against which she leaned. "Do you understand?" he asked.
"Yes. You mean—Mrs. Ruthven."
"I mean—her. Afterward—when matters had altered—I came—home."