Put it straight out of your
mind. You know I can't help you if you go on like this."
"You can."
"My dear, I wish I knew how. You asked me to stay and I stayed. I can
understand _that_."
"If I asked you to go, would you go, Steven? Would you understand that
too?"
"My dear child, what good would that do you?"
"I want you to go, Steven."
"You want me to go?"
He screwed up his eyes as if he were trying to see the thing clearly.
"Yes," she said.
He shook his head. He had given it up.
"No, my dear, you don't want me to go. You only think you do. You
don't know what you want."
"I shouldn't say it if I didn't."
"Wouldn't you! It's exactly what you would say. Do you suppose I don't
know you?"
She had both her arms stretched before him on the table now. The hands
were clasped. The little thin hands implored him. Her eyes implored
him. In the tense clasp and in the gaze there was the passion of
entreaty that she kept out of her voice.
But Rowcliffe did not see it. He had shifted his position, sinking a
little lower into his chair, and his head was bowed before her. His
eyes, somberly reflective, looked straight in front of him under their
bent brows.
He seemed to be really considering whether he would go or stay.
"No," he said presently. "No, I'm not going."
But he was dubious and deliberate. It was as if he still weighed it,
still watched for the turning of the scale.
The clock across the market-place struck eight.
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