Before he let himself be carried away by the sweep of her impulse and his own passion he saw that not honour but common decency forbade him to take advantage of a moment’s inspired tenderness.  He had already made a slight appeal ad misericordiam; but that was for her sake not his own.  He realized most completely his impossible position.  He had no income, and he had damaged his health so seriously that it might be long enough before he could make one; and these facts he could not possibly mention.  She suspected him of poverty; but the smallest hint of his real state would have roused her infallible instinct of divination.  He had felt, as her eyes rested on his emaciated body, that they could see the course of its sufferings, its starvation.  He meant that she should never know what things had happened to him in Howland Street.  His chivalry revolted against the brutality of capturing her tender heart by such a lacerating haul on its compassion.

All this swept through him between the falling of her ears.  Last of all came the thought of what he was giving up.  Was it possible that she cared for him?

It could not be.  The illusion lasted only for an instant.  Yet while it lasted the insane longing seized him to take her at her word and risk the consequences.  For she would find out afterwards that she had never loved him; and she would disguise her feeling and he would see through her disguise.  He would know.  There could never be any disguise, any illusion between her and him.  But at least he could take her in his arms and hold her now, while her tears fell; she would be his for this moment that was now.

He searched her face to see if indeed there had been any illusion.  Through the tears that veiled her eyes he could not see whether it were love or pity that still shone in them; but because of the tears he thought it must be pity.

She went on.  “You said I had taken the best years of your life—­I would like to give you all mine, instead, such as it is—­if you’ll take it.”

She said it quietly, so quietly that he thought that she had spoken so only because she did not love him.

“How can I take it—­now, in this way?”

(Her tears stopped falling suddenly.)

“I admit that I made a gross appeal to your pity.”

“My pity?”

“Yes, your pity.”  His words were curt and hard because of the terrible restraint he had to put upon himself.  “I did it because it was the best argument.  Otherwise it would have been abominable of me to have said those things.”

“I wasn’t thinking of anything you said, only of what you’ve done.”

“I haven’t done much.  But tell me the truth.  Whether would you rather I had done it for your sake or for mere honour’s sake?”

“I would rather you had done it for honour’s sake.”  She said it out bravely, though she knew that it was the profounder confession of her feeling.  He, however, was unable to take it that way.