She made no reply, and for a time there was silence. His voice was different now and curiously seductive.
“You look upon me with disgust and scorn. You almost persuaded yourself to let me die in the street rather than stretch out to me a helping hand. And if you hadn’t been merciful then, almost against your will, I should have died.”
“It can make no difference to you how I regard you,” she whispered.
She did not know why his soft, low tones mysteriously wrung her heartstrings. Her pulse began to beat more quickly.
“It makes all the difference in the world. It is horrible to think of your contempt. I feel your goodness and your purity. I can hardly bear my own unworthiness. You turn your eyes away from me as though I were unclean.”
She turned her chair a little and looked at him. She was astonished at the change in his appearance. His hideous obesity seemed no longer repellent, for his eyes wore a new expression; they were incredibly tender now, and they were moist with tears. His mouth was tortured by a passionate distress. Margaret had never seen so much unhappiness on a man’s face, and an overwhelming remorse seized her.
“I don’t want to be unkind to you,” she said.
“I will go. That is how I can best repay you for what you have done.”
The words were so bitter, so humiliated, that the colour rose to her cheeks.
“I ask you to stay. But let us talk of other things.”