“A sinner—­like me.”

“I don’t want to be led into further explanations,” he said, suddenly on his guard against her insinuations.  “You and I have said too much to each other not to be able to be frank.  Now, I’ve been frank enough.  You’ve understood what I’ve felt at other times; you understand what I feel to-day.  Why draw me out, to make me speak more plainly?”

“I am not drawing you out,” she declared.  “If I ask you a question or two, it was to show you that not even the woman that you take me for—­not even the forgiven penitent—­could be a good wife for you.  I can’t marry you, Mr. Pruyn.  I must beg you to let that answer be decisive.”

There was decision in the way in which she folded her work and smoothed the white brocaded surface in her lap.  There was decision, too, in the quickness with which he rose and stood looking down at her.  For a second she expected him to turn from her, as he had turned once before, and leave her with no explanation beyond a few laconic words.  She held her breath while she awaited them.

“Then that means,” he said, at last, “that you put me in the position of taking all, while you give all.”

“I don’t put you in any position whatever.  The circumstances are not of my making.  They are as much beyond my control as they are beyond yours.”

“They’re not wholly beyond mine.  If there are some things I can’t do, there are some I can prevent.”

“What things?”

His tone alarmed her, and she struggled to her feet.

“You’re willing to make me a great sacrifice; but at least I can refuse to accept it.”

“What do you mean?” She moved slightly back from him, behind the protection of one of the tables piled breast-high with its white load.

“You’re willing to lose for me the last vestige of your good name—­”

“I don’t care anything about that,” she said, hurriedly.

“But I do.  I won’t let you.”

“How can you stop me?” she asked, staring at him with large, frightened eyes.

“I shall tell Dorothea’s part in the story.”

“You’d—?” she began, with a questioning cry.

“All who care to hear it, shall.  They shall know it from its beginning to its end.  They shall lose no detail of her folly or of your wisdom.”

“You would sacrifice your child like that?”

“Yes, like that.  Neither she nor I can remain so indebted to any one, as you would have us be to you.”

“You—­wouldn’t—­be—­indebted—­to—­me?”

“Not to so terrible an extent.  If it’s a choice between your good name and hers—­hers must go.  She’d agree with me herself.  She wouldn’t hesitate for one single fraction of an instant—­if she knew.  She’d be grateful to you, as I am; but she couldn’t profit by your magnanimity.”

“So that the alternative you offer me is this:  I can protect myself by sacrificing Dorothea, or I can marry you, and Dorothea will be saved.”