The fat was in the fire with a vengeance.

He did not know what to do, and still remained silent.

She did not give him time to think, but spoke again, this time more coldly.
The white terror had replaced the red: 'Are you not going to answer me a simple question, Harold?
To be silent now is to wrong me! I have a right to know!' In his trouble, for he felt that say what he would he could only give her new pain, he said humbly: 'Don't ask me, Stephen! Won't you understand that I want to do what is best for you?
Won't you trust me ?' Her answer came harshly.

A more experienced man than Harold, one who knew women better, would have seen how overwrought she was, and would have made pity the pivot of his future bearing and acts and words while the interview lasted; pity, and pity only.

But to Harold the high ideal was ever the same.