“I wish to live”—clasping and unclasping her hands nervously. “I never before minded what happened to me, life is so hard—but your love has changed everything. I wish to live for your sake—not for mine.”
“Are you willing to trust yourself to me?” Franz gently interposed.
Margaret's head half rested on the chair-back, half upon his shoulder. Her eyes were closed and the hands he held within his own burned feverishly. At last she whispered:
“Take me with you. It is best we go together. I am sick—sick—and he is killing me. If you would have me, you must take me now....”
The next day as Philip was at work, Franz entered his room unannounced. Seeing who it was, Philip put down his pen, turning from the pile of manuscript over which he had been toiling.
“Are you busy, Philip?” Franz asked.
“Not very. Why?”
“Because I should like a moment's talk with you.”
Philip nodded.
“Just knock those books off a corner of the bed and sit down—dump them on the floor. What is it, old fellow?”