Perhaps she could have put him off with excuses, but that had not
occurred to her. The scene had told her nothing new, but it had torn away
the last of the veil from before his eyes. He had known that she
disapproved, he had even braved her disapproval when he could not
hoodwink or evade it. It was a little strange that he should be moved to
such a transport of bitterness by hearing that she had cried over telling
a lie for him. Yet that was it; she was sure that he had not cared
whether Marchmont saw her crying or not. The tears themselves made him
think that she had wished him dead, yes, that she still wished him dead.
He must not die thinking that. She started across the room towards the
door, at a quick step; it was in her mind to follow him and tell him
again that it was not true, that he would ruin and empty her life if he
died, that there was no man in the world who could be what he was to her.
But her impulse failed her; he would sneer again. There was one thing
that would drive away his sneer if she said it and got him to believe
it--that she loved him as he loved her.
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