"You would not say that it was needless if you felt now as you did just then."
She looked at him helplessly, but did not speak.
"It is three years since he died. I don't ask you to forget him, only I ask whether you could not love someone else—as well?"
"Oh, Mr. Heron, don't ask me," she said, tremblingly. And then she covered her face with her hands; her cheeks were crimson.
"I will ask nothing," said Percival. "I will only tell you what my feelings have been, and then I will go away. It's a selfish indulgence, I know; but I beg of you to grant it. When I had spoken those inconsiderate words of mine I was ashamed of myself. I saw how much I had grieved you, and I vowed that I would never come into your presence again. I went away, and I kept away. You have seen for yourself how I have tried to avoid you, have you not?"
"Yes," she said, gently. "I have seen it."
"You know the reason now. I could not bear to see you and feel what you must be thinking of me. And then—then—I found that it was misery to be without you. I found that I missed you inexpressibly. I did not know till then how dear you had grown to me."
She did not move, she did not speak, she only sat and listened, with her eyes fixed upon her folded hands. But there was nothing forbidding in her silence. He felt that he might go on.
"It comes to this with me," he said, "that I cannot bear to meet you as I meet an ordinary friend or acquaintance. I would rather know that I shall never see you again. Either you must be all to me—or nothing. I know that it must be nothing, and so—I am going to California."
"Do not go," she said, without looking up. She spoke coldly, he thought, but sweetly, too.