"Can you not tell me what they are?" he said gently, taking one of her slight hands in his own.
"Oh, no—not you!"
She was thinking of him as Florence's brother, possibly even as Florence's accomplice in a crime; but he attributed her refusal to a very different motive. Tell him her troubles? Of course she could not do so, poor child, when her troubles came from love of him. He was not a coxcomb, but he believed what Flossy had said.
"Not me? You cannot tell me?" he said, drawing her away from the cold uncurtained windows with his hand still on hers. "And can I do nothing to lighten your trouble, dear?"
She looked at him doubtfully.
"I—don't—know."
"Enid, tell me."
"Oh, no!" she cried. "I can't tell you—I can't tell any one—I must bear it all alone!"—and then she burst into tears, not into noisy sobs, but into a nearly silent passion of grief which went to the very heart of the man who stood at her side. She drew her hand away from his and laid it upon the mantelpiece, which she crept to and leaned against, sobbing miserably meanwhile, as if she needed the support that solid stone could give.
Her slender figure, in its closely-fitting white gown, shook from head to foot. It was as much as Hubert could do to restrain himself from putting his arm round it, drawing it closely to him, and silencing the sobs with kisses. But his feeling was that of a grown-up person to a child whom he wanted to comfort and protect, not that of a man to the woman whom he loved. He waited therefore silently, with a fixed look of mingled pain and determination upon his face, until she had grown a little calmer. When at last her figure ceased to vibrate with sobs, he came closer and put his hand caressingly upon her shoulder.
"Enid," he said, "I have asked you before if I could make you happier; you never answered the question. Will you tell me now?"