"And I _do_ mean
what I say," she resumed. "I loathed the old life, but that is done
with. I am living a new life now----"
He turned to look at her, red chasing white from his face at every
breath; then, yielding to an irresistible impulse, he went to her,
grasped her folded hands in both of his, and looked into her eyes for
one burning moment. The hot blood flamed to her face. She was startled.
"Don't let us quarrel," he said, hoarsely.
"Why do you try to?" she retorted. "It is always you who begin."
"I think you want pluck," he said.
"Oh, no; not that," she answered.
"Just now you do."
"Then I think you want discernment," she retorted with spirit.
And so they went on, as if neither of them had ever heard of such a
thing as conventional propriety.
Lorrimer did not answer that last remark. He was standing at a little
distance from her, watching her. Ideala was looking grave.
"What is your conscience troubling you about now?" he asked. "I never
listen to my conscience."
"I don't believe you," she answered, promptly.
"That is polite," he observed.
Then there was another pause.
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