“You must avoid exposure.”
“How?”
“By acting like a man, not like a coward.”
He looked at her sharply, without replying. She spoke with all the gravity of a woman twice her years, and he could not decide whether she were really in earnest in the expression of her readiness to become his friend. One thing was absolutely certain, namely, that she was acquainted with the innermost secrets of his heart. In the wild madness of despair he had blurted out his fear and agony of mind, and she had actually been the witness of those moments of sweet melancholy when, at the sight of that lock of hair, he had allowed his thoughts to wander back to the days long dead, when the world was to him so rosy and full of life. Should he conciliate her, or should he, on the other hand, defy her and refuse her assistance? That she, of all women, should in this fashion thrust herself into his life was strange indeed. But had she actually thrust herself upon him, or was her presence there, as she had alleged, a mere freak of fortune?
“You say that I ought to act like a man, Miss Mortimer. Well, I am ready to hear your suggestion.”
“My suggestion is quite simple: it is that you should live, be bold, and face those who seek your downfall.”
He sighed despairingly.
“In theory that’s all very well, but in practice, impossible,” he answered after a short pause.
“Think! You are wealthy, you are famous, with hosts of friends who will come to your aid if you confide in them—”
“Ah! but I cannot confide in them,” he cried despondently, interrupting her. “You are the only person who knows the secret of my intention.”