It was the truth and Geoffrey knew it. He felt his anger
contract and die, doused like the gas flame on a quenched lamp.
This girl — child, more like — capering around his drawing
room was staging this travesty entirely for him. It was an
entreaty for his approval, admiration, love. And she had a right
to those things, by heaven she had. But all Geoffrey felt was a
dull, repugnant horror. It was he who was monstrous, not the
girl. He was a creature devoid of heart.

He sat down at the velvet-clothed table and buried his face
in his hands. The thick embroidery of oak leaves and acorns
pressed against his elbows. He felt powerless and desperate.

Tomorrow morning he would shave, dress, put on his best
cambric shirt and frock coat and walk through Hokitika to All
Saints as if it were the scaffold. There, in a chill church, before an
absent God and a handful of disapproving mortals, he would tie
with his tongue the knot that could not be undone with his teeth.

The people they say, no two e’er wed
But one had a sorrow that never was said.

The old song was right: Geoffrey was caught, trapped, snared.
It was his own fault, his own doing. He was guilty and deserved
what came. He didn’t have to say he’d marry her. He could have
refused — of course he could have. Just said no. Given her money,
bought her off. Turned her out. He’d had that choice, and he
chose what some call honour. This, apparently, was its price.

The girl was remorseful now. She subsided on the ground
at Geoffrey’s feet, eager to please, to take the dress off, if that
was what he wanted.
‘I do,’ said Geoffrey. He knew it must seem sentimental
and stupid.