Part 38 (1/2)

”I can't marry you,” she cried. ”I can't give you what you want.”

”Do you mean that you can't care for me? Is that what you're trying to tell me all the time?”

He moved and she cowered back into her chair.

”I--I _can't_ tell you.”

He had turned from her. He was leaning his arms along the mantelshelf; he had bowed his head on them.

They remained for some minutes so; she cowering back; he with his face hidden from her.

”Do you mind telling me,” he said presently, ”if there's anybody else that you----”

”That I care for? No, Robert, there's no one.”

”Are you quite sure? Quite honest. Think.”

”Do you mean Wilfrid Marston?”

”Yes.”

”I certainly do not care for _him_.”

He raised his head at that; but he did not look at her.

”Thank G.o.d!” he said.

”Do you think as badly of him as all that?”

”Don't ask me what I think of him.”

”Would you think badly of me if I'd married him?”

”I--I couldn't have stood it, Kitty.”

”I am not going to marry him.”

”You haven't said yet that you don't care for me?”

”No. I haven't.”

He turned and stooped over her, compelling her to look at him.

”Say it then,” he said.

She drew back her face from his and put up her hands between them. He rose and stood before her and looked down at her. The blue of her eyes had narrowed, the pupils stared at him, black and feverish. Her mouth, which had been tight-shut, was open slightly. A thin flush blurred its edges. Her breath came through, short and sharp.

”You're ill,” he said. ”You must go back to bed.”

”No,” she said. ”I've got to tell you something.”