“Go!” she pleaded. “Save yourself—for my sake—Paul!” And her voice broke.
“That you may wed with the clearer conscience!” I went on, merciless in my pain.
She crouched down, a drear and pitiful figure, on the slope of sod, and wept silently, her hands over her eyes. I looked at her helplessly. I wanted to throw myself at her feet. Then the right thing seemed that I should gather her up into my arms—but I dared not touch her. At last I said, doubtfully:
“But—you love me!”
No answer.
“You do love me, Yvonne?”
She lifted her face, and with a childish bravery dashed off the tears, first with one hand, then the other. She looked me straight in the eyes.
“I do not,” said she, daring the lie. “But you—you disturb me!”
This astonishing remark did not shake my confidence, but it threw me out of my argument. I shifted ground.
“You do not love him!” I exclaimed, lamely enough.