He faced her, his eyes flashing with that fanatical fire that would have sent him to the stake three centuries since. They seemed to retreat, become minute, bore through her. Anne, whose mind was in confusion, and not a little angered, stirred uneasily, but she replied in a calm decided tone.
"I fully realise my responsibility. Make no doubt of that. I know what I have done, what I am undertaking, I shall live for him, never for myself. I promise you that, if you think the promise necessary."
"And you will never let him write another line of poetry?"
"Not if I believed it would do him more hurt than good."
"That is not enough," cried Hunsdon passionately. "You must be unconditional. One surrender and he is lost. If it were a mere case of brandy while he was writing--but you have not the least idea what it leads to. He is transformed, another man--not a man at all. And when he emerged, did he enter that horror again, he would loathe himself as he never did before. He would be without one shred of self-respect. I shudder to think what would be the final result."
"You will admit that as his wife I may find better opportunities to understand that complicated nature than you have had."
"Will you not make me that promise?"
"I will only promise to be guided by my judgment, not by my feelings. I hear Byam's voice. After all, it is hardly fair to talk him over like this."