"It is a pretty story," she said, letting her hands fall listlessly into her lap, "but the denouement is a castle in Spain that we should never inhabit. You think your love is strong enough to kill mine first of all; well, I tell you, nothing is strong enough for that. With this fact established the rest is needless to speak of. It is only your dream, Louis; forgive me that I unwittingly intruded into it; reality would mean disillusion, --we are happy only when we dream."
"You are bitter."
"Our relations are turned, then; I have put into practice your old theories of the uselessness of life. No; I am wrong. It is better to die than not to have loved."
"You think you have lived your life, then. I can't convince you otherwise now; but I am going to beg you to think this over, to try to imagine yourself my wife. I will not hasten your decision, but in a week's time you should be able to answer me yes or no. If anything can help my cause, I cannot overlook it; so I may tell you now that for some occult reason your mother's one wish is to see you my wife."
"And my father?" her voice was harsh now.
"Your father has expressed to your mother that such a course would make him happy."
She rose suddenly as if oppressed. Her face looked hard to a degree. She stood before him, tall and rigid. He stood up and faced her, reading her face so intently that he straightened himself as if to receive an attack.
"I will consider what you have said," she said mechanically.
The reaction was so unexpected that he turned giddy and caught on to the back of a chair to steady himself.
"It will not take me a week," she went on with no change in her monotone;
"I can give you an answer in a day or two. To-morrow night, perhaps."
He made a step forward, a movement to seize her hand; but she stepped back and waved him off.
"Don't touch me," she cried in a suppressed voice; "at least you are not my husband--yet."
She turned hastily toward the door without another word.
"Wait!"
His vibrant voice compelled her to turn.
"I want no martyr for a wife, nor yet a tragedy queen. If you can come to me and honestly say, 'I trust my happiness to you,' well and good. But as I told you once before, I am not a saint, and I cannot always control myself as I have been forced to do tonight. If this admission is damaging, it is too true to be put lightly aside. I shall not detain you longer."
He looked haughty and cold regarding her from this dim distance. Her gentleness struggled to get the better of her, and she came back and held out her hand.
"I am sorry if I offended you, Louis; good-night. Will you not pardon my selfishness?"
His eyes gleamed behind their glasses; he did not take her hand, but merely bent over the little peace-offering as over a sacrament. Seeing that he had no intention of doing more, her hand fell passively to her side, and she left the room.
As the door closed softly, Arnold sank with a hopeless gesture into a chair and buried his face in his hands. He was not a stoic, but a man, --a Frenchman, who loved much; but Arnold, half-blinded by his own love, scarcely appreciated the depths of self-forgetfulness to which Ruth would have to succumb in order to accept the guaranty of happiness which he offered her.
The question now presented itself in the light of a duty: if by this action she could undo the remorse that her former offence had inflicted, had she the right to ignore the opportunity? A vision of her own sad face obtruded itself, but she put it sternly from her. If she were to do this thing, the motive alone must be considered; and she rigidly kept in view the fact that her marriage would be the only means by which her father might be relieved of the haunting knowledge of her lost peace of mind. Had she given one thought to Louis, the possibility of the act would have been abhorrent to her. One picture she kept constantly before her, --her father's happy eyes.
