"It's impossible . . . it's too late . . . we are to be married on
Thursday; everything is fixed up. I—oh, for God's sake, Cynthia,
don't go on talking about it. You drove me to do what I have done.
It's too late—I can't go back on my word."
She stood twisting her fingers agitatedly. Suddenly she went to where he stood; she tried to put her arms round his neck, but he resisted fiercely. He held her wrists; he kept his head flung back beyond her reach.
"It's too late, Cynthia—do you hear! I've given my word; I'm not going back on it now. You can't blame me. . . . I—I'd have given my life for this to have happened before—just a few days ago; but now——"
"You don't love me," she accused him passionately; she began to cry. "You said you would never love any woman but me as long as you lived. I thought you cared more for me than I do for you, but now I know you don't—you don't care so much. If you did you would give up this—this girl, whoever she is, without a single thought." Her voice dropped sobbingly. "Oh, Jimmy—Jimmy, don't be cruel; you can't mean It. I love you so much . . . you belonged to me first."
"You sent me away; you lied to me and deceived me."
He felt that he must keep on reminding himself of it; that he dared not for one instant allow himself to forget everything but how beautiful she was, and how much he wanted her.
She fell back from him; she dropped into a chair, hiding her face, and sobbing.
There was a touch of the theatrical in her attitude, but Jimmy was too miserable to be critical. He only knew that she was miserable and on his account, and that he loved her.
He broke out agitatedly:
"Don't, Cynthia—don't cry; you break my heart. . . Oh, for God's sake, don't cry."