He had drawn her gently towards him as he spoke. She did not resist; her head rested on his shoulder, her slender fingers stole again into his hand; she drew a sigh of perfect well-being and content. This man, at any rate, she could trust with all her heart.
"Do you love me a little, Enid?"
"I think so."
"You are not yet sure?"
"I am not sure of anything; I have been so tossed about—so perplexed—so troubled. I feel as if I could be at rest with you—is that enough?"
"For the present. We will wait; and, if you feel more for me, or if you feel less—whatever happens—you must let me know, and I will be content."
"You are very good! But, oh"—with a sudden shrinking movement—"I—I shall have broken my word!"
"Yes; I am sorry that you have to do it. But better break your word than marry a man you do not love."
"And who does not love me," said Enid, in an exceedingly low tone.
"Are you really sure of that, Enid?"