averted her face, and for a moment Taylor stood there stunned. She was broken by what Bryant had written her—and if he should tell what he had come to tell? That would be cruelty now, he told himself; it would be sheer heartlessness not to spare her further suffering for a few hours at least—and while he waited, helpless to help her, he saw her clutch her fists and a low moan escaped her lips.
The sound was like the bite of a lash and he stepped forward, reached out his hands, checked the gesture and left them hovering over her shoulders. For an instant he was so and then drew back, afraid to touch her, lost, knowing no word to say, no move to make; but a ragged breath caught in her throat and he found his palms on her arms, gripping roughly, turning her about, and the feel of her flesh under his fingers clarified everything.
"Helen!" he cried. "Helen! you're not alone! I'm here, with you. I'm going to stay. I'm going to help you!"
She looked up in wonder at the manner of his voice. He had spoken no boast, no empty promise; there was a modesty, a simplicity about him which indicated strength, ability, earnestness, and she read those qualities in his face. For the first time she saw maturity there, for the first time she was almost in awe of him.
She felt his hands gripping her arms. She felt herself drawn forward, close and closer to him, and put out her hands, not to hold her body away, but to place them against his breast, pressing her finger tips into his flesh. Her lips were parted, breath light and quick. She felt his arms go about her almost roughly, saw his face darken and heard his voice, thick and husked with passion:
