"You mean . . . all this means . . . that you don't love me."
Feathers bit his lip till the blood came. Not love her! When every drop of blood in his body was on fire with love for her; when he was holding himself in with a grip of iron from taking her into his arms. He laughed drearily as he answered:
261 "If I loved you less I should not try to send you away."
She looked up then, the blood rushing in a crimson wave to her face. He knew he had but to say the word and she would leave everything for him, and the knowledge tore his heart with pride and humility. He knew he had but to hold out his arms and she would come to them as a child might, trusting him, confident of happiness.
And it was because she was such a child that he would not, dare not! She did not understand what she was doing, he kept telling himself. She did not realize into what a pitiful trap she was trying to lead both him and herself. His heart ached with tenderness for her, even while it bled with the wounds of the battle he was fighting.
There were moments when nothing seemed to matter but this girl and her wistful eyes—moments when honor was but a paltry rag, and friendship a thing at which to scoff—moments when he told himself that he had as much right to happiness as anyone in the world, and that it was here for the taking—moments when he would have sold his immortal soul to hold her to his heart and kiss her lips. He felt his resistance breaking down, and in despair he broke out:
"Mrs. Lawless, let me take you home . . . I beg of you—for both our sakes . . ."
She stood quite still, her hands tearing at her gloves, then suddenly she looked up at him with burning eyes.
He could read the thoughts behind those eyes—shame that he was sending her away, and shame because she had come. Feathers stifled a groan as he turned from her.
Then—"I am quite ready," she said, in the faintest whisper.