The unmanliness of his tone was so dreadful a disillusion.

She had expected something so entirely different--swift, virile passion, eagerness even to anticipate her desire of flight, a strength, a courage to which she could abandon herself, body and soul.
She broke down utterly, and wept with her hands upon her face.
Bevis, in sympathetic distraction, threw himself on his knees before, clutching at her waist.
'Don't, don't!' he wailed.

'I can't bear that! I will do as you wish, Monica.

Tell me some place where I can write to you.

Don't cry, darling--don't--' She went to the couch again, and rested her face against the back, sobbing.