I won't remind you of my existence for--let us say before
next Sunday. Now, is it agreed?"
"I should be dishonest if I pretended to agree."
"But--don't you think you owe it to me to give what I suggest a
fair trial?"
The words were trenchant, the tone was studiously soft. Irene strung
herself for contest, hoping it would come quickly and undisguised.
"I owe you much. I have done you a great injustice. But waiting will
do no good. I know my mind at last. I see what is possible and what
impossible."
"Do you imagine, Irene, that I can part with you on these terms? Do
you really think I could shake hands, and say good-bye, at this
stage of our relations?"
"What can I do?" Her voice, kept low, shook with emotion. "I confess
an error--am I to pay for it with my life?"
"I ask you only to be just to yourself as well as to me. Let three
days go by, and see me again."
She seemed to reflect upon it. In truth she was debating whether to
persevere in honesty, or to spare her nerves with dissimulation. A
promise to wait three days would set her free forthwith; the
temptation was great. But something in her had more constraining
power.
"If I pretended to agree, I should be ashamed of myself. I should
have passed from error into baseness. You would have a right to
despise me; as it is, you have only a right to be angry."
As though the word acted upon his mood, Arnold sprang forward from
the chair, fell upon one knee close beside her, and grasped her
hands.
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