He raised both hands. "Get out of this!" he shouted. "She shall stay here tonight." The hands went to Helen's shoulders and forced her to her knees. "D'ye hear? I tell you she's made me mad!" Helen was more pitiful than afraid. She hardly knew what she did, but she thought God was in the room. "George, I'll do anything in the world for you if you'll give her up. Anything. You couldn't be so wicked. George, be quick. Before she wakes. Shan't we carry her out now? Shan't we?" She forgot his manhood, and saw him only as a big animal that might spring and must be soothed. "Let us do that before she knows. George--" He looked half stupefied as he said childishly, "But I swore I'd have her, and I want her." "But you don't love her. No, no, you don't." She laid a hand on his knee. "Why, you've known us all our lives." "Ah!" He sprang up and past her and the spell of the soft hands and voice was broken. He sneered at her. "You thought you'd done it that time!" "Yes," she said sadly, and put herself between him and Miriam. With her chin on her clasped hands, and her steady eyes, she seemed to be the thing he had always wanted, for the lack of which he had suffered, been tormented. "George," she said, "I'll give you everything I have--" He caught his breath. "Yourself?" he asked on an inspiration that held him astonished, eager and translated. She looked up as if she had been blinded, then stiffly she moved her head. "What do you mean?" "Give me yourself. Oh, I've been mad tonight--for days--she made me." He pointed to the limp and gracious figure on the floor and leaned against the bed-rail. "Mad! And you, all the time, out there on the moor against the sky. Helen, promise!" Her voice had no expression when she said, "I promised anything you asked for. Bring some water." But he still stood, dazed and trembling. "Bring some water," she said again. He spilt it as he carried it. "Why didn't I see before? I did see before. On the moor, I watched for you You're beautiful." His voice sank. "You're good." She was not listening to him. She dabbled water on Miriam's brow and lips and chafed her hands, but still she lay as if she were glad to sleep. "Poor little thing!" Helen said deeply and half turned her head. "Some of your brandy," she commanded. "She is so cold." "I'll take her to the kitchen." "Is that woman in the house?" she asked sharply. "She's in bed, I suppose." "She must have heard--she must have known--and she didn't help!" He put a hand to his forehead. "No, she didn't help. I'd meant to give her up, and then--I found her here, and I'd been drinking." "Don't tell me! Don't tell me!" She twisted her hands together. "George, don't make me hate you." "No," he said with a strange meekness. "Shall I take her to the kitchen? It'll be warm there, and the fire won't be out. I'll carry her." "But I don't like you to touch her," Helen stated with a simplicity that had its fierceness.