He paused, wondering what was in her mind. She spoke brokenly, as though by an effort almost beyond her strength.
“Are you sure you love me, Basil?”
“Quite sure,” he answered, trying to smile.
“Because I don’t want to be married out of pity or anything like that. If you’re only doing it because you think you ought, I’d rather go on as I am.”
“But why d’you say this now, Jenny?”
“I’ve been thinking it over. The other day when you offered to marry me I was so happy I couldn’t think it out. But I love you so much that I’ve seen things quite differently since then. I don’t want to hurt you. I know I’m not the sort of woman you ought to marry, and I can’t help you to get on.”
Her voice trembled, but she forced herself to continue, and Basil, motionless, listened to her gravely. He could not see her face.
“I want to know if you really care for me, Basil. If you don’t, you’ve only got to say so, and we’ll break it off. After all, I’m not the first girl that’s got into trouble; I could easily manage, you know.”
For one moment he hesitated, and his heart beat painfully. Miss Ley’s cold advice, his mother’s scorn, recurred to him: the girl herself offered an opportunity, and would it not, after all, be best to seize it?
His freedom stood before him, and he exulted; a few easy words might destroy that horrible nightmare, and he could start life afresh, wiser and better. But Jenny turned round, and in her sad, beautiful eyes he saw a mortal anxiety; in the sickening anguish of her expectation she could scarcely breathe. He had not the strength to speak.