"Another five," she said. "I shall come with you then."
Hentzi withdrew nervous and expostulating. Trent noticed that her manner was different when she spoke. There was a certain timidity about her, an air of unhappiness almost of hopelessness.
"Have you thought what difference it will make to me?" she asked.
Gone from her face were those meretricious smiles, those little ways cultivated through intimate association with her world of warring sex. The Pauline who looked at him now was a woman stripped of artifice, a woman who suffered and loved.
There was an uncomfortable silence, the awkwardness of the man in the avowed affection of the undesired woman.
"Let there be no deception between us," she said quietly. "I see that it is someone else who claims your heart. I did not think there were men like you who would be steadfast and loyal in a moment such as this. I know only that we—you and I—are alike in one thing. We both love where there is no hope. I came here to offer you freedom at a price most men would be glad to pay. I will not insult you by saying what it was. I have known few good men and I know you are good."
"No, no," he cried, embarrassed by her manner, "Indeed if you only knew."
She would not listen.
"Love can redeem all," she said. "I pray the good God whom I have neglected," she smiled a little ruefully, "to redeem me. I feel that my life is over. I have had everything I wanted and am wearied of the taste. Everything I wanted until now. There comes a time when one is no longer so eager to live. It is so with me." She looked at him wistfully. "Can you believe me when I tell you I want to help you?"