"John, isn't that rather a lame equivocation?"
He stared at her with heavy, troubled eyes.
"Yes, it was. But the truth might hurt you, Beatrice."
"No, it wouldn't. Nothing can hurt so much in the end as lies and
humbug."
"Well, then, I asked you to become my wife because I believed that my
conduct had put you into a wrong and painful situation in the eyes of
the world."
"Nothing else?"
"I wished to prove to Lois that I could never be her husband."
"You were afraid that she would see through your pretense to your
unchanged affection for her?"
He started.
"Beatrice, how do you know?"
"Look in your own glass, John. Yours isn't the face of a man who has
shaken off an old attachment."
He rose and stood with his back half turned to her, playing idly with
the papers on the table.
"You are partly right," he said, after a moment's silence, "but not
quite. I have more on my shoulders than that; I have a heavy
responsibility--a debt to pay."
"You, too?" she asked, with a return of the half-melancholy, half-bitter
smile. "Have you also a debt?"
"Not of my making," was the answer. The voice rang suddenly stern and
harsh, and Beatrice saw him look up suddenly, as though instinctively
seeking something on the wall. "Beatrice, you must know that my
actions are dictated by motives which I can not for many reasons give
to the world. For one thing, I have given my promise; for another, my
own judgment tells me that it is better for every one that I should be
silent.
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