“I—can’t explain. But—you were telling me about yourself?”
“You care to hear?”
“Of course I do.”
“When I went down to see you last night it seemed as if it would be so easy; now, somehow I can’t say what I want.”
“Is it something I can do for you?”
“Yes—yes—look here, come down to the studio now. I’ll start that picture, and while I work you can talk. Then we’ll lunch there, and talk some more and see if we can’t put things a bit straight. Will you come?”
Little as he had said, his manner had conveyed an assurance to her that she would quickly gain her object, and it required all her self-restraint to enable her to conceal her relief and triumph. She did not reply to him immediately, looking into the fire as though she were thinking over what he had said, in reality waiting until she felt sure of her voice and eyes. The conversation of the last few minutes had shown him to be her captive and that the life she had been dreaming of was now about to become a reality.
She stood up as she answered him——
“I’ll come; it will do me good. You’ve been awfully kind to me.”
While waiting for her, he paced quickly up and down the room. All hesitation and all doubt had vanished; his pulse beat quickly; he longed to be away with her: to see her seated before him, the rebel whom he hoped to tame. Yet with this certainty there mixed a last remnant of reason: before he gave himself he must be sure that she was his. He could not bring himself seriously to mistrust her, but he realized that he was holding out a rescuing hand to a lonely, desperate, possibly cunning woman. She might clutch at it in helplessness; he longed that she should clasp it in love.