"I can't credit you with such madness."
"But what if—" She leaned toward him and whispered a short sentence in his ear. His face turned the color of ashes, and he clutched her wrist so tightly that she winced with pain.
"It is a lie!" he cried, brutally. "By heavens, if I believed—"
The woman laughed—a laugh that was not pleasant to hear.
"Fool! do you think I would tell you if it was true?" she said. "I was only jesting."
"It is not a subject to jest about," Nevill answered stiffly. "I came here to do you a good turn, and—"
"You had better have kept away. You are a fiend—you are a Satan himself! Why do you tempt me? Do you think that I have no conscience, no shame left? I am bad enough, Victor Nevill, but by the memory of the past—of what I threw away—I can't stoop so low as to—"
"Your heroics are out of place," he interrupted. "Go to the devil your own way, if you like."
"You shall have an answer to-morrow—to-morrow! Give me time to think about it."
The woman sank down on the couch again; her over-wrought nerves gave way, and burying her face in the cushions she sobbed hysterically. Nevill looked at her for a moment. Then he put a couple of sovereigns on the table and quietly left the room.