She whispered something; but because of her averted face he did not catch the words.
"I beg your pardon?" he queried fearfully. "I did not hear."
Now she stood with her back to him; but not far from his one capable hand hanging empty and hungry over the edge of the bed.
"Can't you—pretend?" she asked very faintly.
"Pretend?" he repeated, in wonder; for, after all, he was rather a simple soul in some things. "Pretend? I am not pretending. I don't think I am much of a hand at pretending. What—do you mean?"
"If—you—care for me—please pretend that you do not like me at all. Keep away from our place—you know, and—and when we meet by accident—don't—don't look at me as—you do."
Rayton did not answer immediately.
"I couldn't do that," he said, after a brief but electrical silence. "Of course I could—but it would be harder for me than—than being shot every day of my life. I am rather a fool at pretending, I'm afraid. But if you say so, if you say I—I have no chance, then I'll clear out—at the double—without a kick!"
"It is because—because I care so for you—that I ask you to do these things," she whispered.