"I am afraid I do not love you—in that way," said Elizabeth, meditatively. "No, it would never do. I never dreamt of such a thing."
"Nobody expects you to have dreamt of it," rejoined Percival, with a short laugh. "The dreaming can be left to me. The question is rather whether you will think of it now—consider it a little, I mean. It seems to be a new idea to you—though I must say I wonder that you have not seen how much I loved you, Elizabeth! I am willing to wait until you have grown used to it. I cannot believe that you do not care for me! You would not be so cruel; you must love me a little—just a very little, Elizabeth."
"Well, I do," said Elizabeth, smiling at his vehemence. "I do love you—more than a little—as I love you all. You have been so good to me that I could not help caring for you—in spite of the doll and the ghost in the attic." Her smile grew gravely mischievous as she finished the sentence.
"Oh, that is not what I want," cried Percival, starting up from his lowly position at her feet. "That is not the kind of love that I am asking for at all."
"I am afraid you will get no other," said Elizabeth, with a ring of sincerity in her voice that left no room for coquetry. "I am sorry, but I cannot help it, Percival."
"Your love is not given to anyone else?" he demanded, fiercely.
"You have no right to ask. But if it is a satisfaction to you, I can assure you that I have never cared for anyone in that way. I do not know what it means," said Elizabeth, looking directly before her. "I have never been able to understand."
"Let me make you understand," murmured Percival, his momentary anger melting before the complete candour of her eyes. "Let me teach you to love, Elizabeth."
She was silent—irresolute, as it appeared to him.
"You would learn very easily," said he. "Try—let me try."