She dropped the letter opener and stood silent, motionless, awaiting his approach—­a pose so eloquent of the sense of fatality strong in her as to strike him with apprehension, unused though he was to the appraisal of inner values.  He read, darkly, something of this mystery in her eyes as they were slowly raised to his, he felt afraid; he was swept again by those unwonted emotions of pity and tenderness—­but when she turned away her head and he saw the bright spot of colour growing in her cheek, spreading to her temple, suffusing her throat, when he touched the soft contour of her arm, his passion conquered....  Still he was acutely conscious of a resistance within her—­not as before, physically directed against him, but repudiating her own desire.  She became limp in his arms, though making no attempt to escape, and he knew that the essential self of her he craved still evaded and defied him.  And he clung to her the more desperately—­as though by crushing her peradventure he might capture it.

“You’re hurting me,” she said at last, and he let her go, standing by helplessly while she went through the movements of readjustment instinctive to women.  Even in these he read the existence of the reservation he was loth to acknowledge.

“Don’t you love me?” he said.

“I don’t know.”

“You do!” he said.  “You—­you proved it—­I know it.”

She went a little away from him, picking up the paper cutter, but it lay idle in her hand.

“For God’s sake, tell me what’s the matter!” he exclaimed.  “I can’t stand this.  Janet, aren’t you happy?”

She shook her head.

“Why not?  I love you.  I—­I’ve never been so happy in my life as I was this morning.  Why aren’t you happy—­when we love each other?”

“Because I’m not.”

“Why not?  There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to make you happy—­you know that.  Tell me!”

“You wouldn’t understand.  I couldn’t make you understand.”

“Is it something I’ve done?”

“You don’t love me,” she said.  “You only want me.  I’m not made that way, I’m not generous enough, I guess.  I’ve got to have work to do.”

“Work to do!  But you’ll share my work—­it’s nothing without you.”

She shook her head.  “I knew you couldn’t understand.  You don’t realize how impossible it is.  I don’t blame you—­I suppose a man can’t.”

She was not upbraiding him, she spoke quietly, in a tone almost lifeless, yet the emotional effect of it was tremendous.

“But,” he began, and stopped, and was swept on again by an impulse that drowned all caution, all reason.  “But you can help me—­when we are married.”

“Married!” she repeated.  “You want to marry me?”

“Yes, yes—­I need you.”  He took her hands, he felt them tremble in his, her breath came quickly, but her gaze was so intent as seemingly to penetrate to the depths of him.  And despite his man’s amazement at her hesitation now that he had offered her his all, he was moved, disturbed, ashamed as he had never been in his life.  At length, when he could stand no longer the suspense of this inquisition, he stammered out:  “I want you to be my wife.”