"Not at all. He"ll respect you all the more for it. He won"t go back on you."
"He wouldn"t if he"d only himself to think of."
"He isn"t bound to tell his people. That"s another thing."
"It isn"t his people--it"s--it"s his children."
Marston became suddenly attentive. "His children? He"s got children, has he?"
"Yes, two; two little girls."
That strengthened his point.
"Then, my dear girl, you can"t--in common decency--not tell him. Hang it all, you"ve got to give the man a chance."
"A chance to escape? You talk as if I"d set a trap for him."
"My dear child, you haven"t sense enough to set a trap. But, since there are spring-guns in his neighbourhood, I repeat that you ought to inform him of the fact. I dare say he wouldn"t funk a spring-gun on his own account, but he may not want his children to be hurt."
"I know. He"d be afraid I should contaminate them. I wouldn"t, Wilfrid, I wouldn"t. I wouldn"t hurt them for the world."
"I"m sure you wouldn"t. But he might think you would. The fathers of little girls sometimes have strange prejudices. You see it"s all very well as long as you can keep him in his beautiful innocence. But, if he finds out that you"ve deceived him, he--well, he might resent it."
He never turned his eyes from that livid, vulnerable spot, striking at it with the sword-thrust of his point.
"A man can forgive many things in a woman, but not that."
"I must risk it. He mayn"t find out for years and years. If I tell him I shall lose him now."
"Not necessarily. Not if he cares for you as much as I should say he does."
"It doesn"t matter how much he cares. He"d never marry me."
"No. He might make another and more sensible arrangement."
"And then?" She faced him with it.
"Then you"ll be satisfied. You"ll have had your fling."
"And--when--I"ve--had it?" she said slowly.
"Then, I suppose, I shall have to take you back."
"I see. That"s where you think you"ll come in."
"I wasn"t thinking, at the moment, of myself. The suggestion was thrown out entirely on your behalf, and I may say his. I"m simply telling you what--knowing you as I do--I consider the wiser course, for both of you."
"You don"t know. And you don"t know him. He wouldn"t do it. He isn"t that sort."
She paused, brooding over it.
"Besides, I couldn"t bear it. I can"t go back to that."
"And how many years do you think you"ll stand being proper and respectable, which is what you"ll have to be as long as you"re Mrs.
Robert Lucy? It"s a stiffish job, my child, for you to tackle. Just think of the practical difficulties. I"ve accounted for the sudden, very singular collapse of your income, but there are all sorts of things that you won"t be able to account for. The disappearance, for instance, of the entire circle of your acquaintance."
She smiled. "It would be _much_ more awkward if it didn"t disappear."
"True. Still, a female friend or two is an indispensable part of a married woman"s outfit. The Lucys mayn"t mind, but their friends may regard the omission as peculiar. Then--you have charming manners, I know--but your speech is apt, at times, to be a little, what shall I say? Unfettered. The other day, when you were annoyed with me, you called me a beast."
"That"s nothing. I might have called you something much worse."
"You might. Happily, you did not. I"ve no objection to the word; it can be used as a delicate endearment, but in your mouth it loses any tender grace it might have had."
"I"m sorry, Wilfrid."
"Don"t apologise. _I_ didn"t mind. But if you call Lucy a beast he won"t like it."
"I couldn"t. Besides, I shall be very careful."
"You will have to be extremely careful. The Lucys live in Hampstead, I believe, and Hampstead enjoys the reputation of being the most respectable suburb of London. You"ve no idea of the sort of people you"ll have to meet there. You"ll terrify them, and they, my poor Kitten, will exterminate you. You don"t know what respectability is like."
"I don"t care. I can stand anything."
"You think you can. I _know_ that you won"t be able to stand it for a fortnight. You"ll find that the air of Hampstead doesn"t agree with you.
And wherever you go it"ll be the same thing. You had very much better stick to me."
"To you?"
"You"ll be safer and happier. If you"ll stay with me----"
"I never have--stayed--with you."
"No, but I"d like you to."
He was not going to make love to her. He was far too clever for that. He knew that with a woman like Kitty, in Kitty"s state of mind, he had nothing to gain by making love. Neither did he propose to pit his will against hers. That course had answered well enough in the time of his possession of her. Pa.s.sion, which was great in her, greater than her will, made his will powerless over her. His plan was to match the forces of her brain with superior, with overwhelming forces.
He continued coldly. "I"m not satisfied with the present arrangement any more than you are. If you"ll stay with me you shall live where you choose; only don"t choose Park Lane, for I can"t afford it. I"ll give you any mortal thing I _can_ afford."
"You think you can give me what Robert Lucy"s giving me?"
"I can give you a home, Kitty, as long as you"ll live in it. I can give you the advantages of marriage without its drawbacks. You won"t be tied to me a minute longer than you like. Whereas you can"t leave Lucy without a scandal."
"You think that a safe arrangement, do you? I can leave you when I want to."
"You can leave me any day. So the chances are that you won"t want to."
"And when you"re tired of me?"