Tom seized Ethel's hand, and held it as in a vice.
Ethel's eyes opened widely, and stared at him in blank-bewilderment.
"Tom!"
"Just say you will, and it'll be all right," pleaded Tom, discarding long words and Latin terminations with shameless promptitude. Somehow, neither long words nor Latin terminations lend themselves to love-making, or to the expression of strong feeling; and Tom's feeling for Ethel was strong of its kind. "Just say you will," reiterated Tom. "I'll do my very best to make you happy, I will indeed!" and his grasp tightened.
Ethel could not have released herself by struggling, and she did not try. She looked straight at Tom, and said, "Please let go!"
Tom dropped the hand as if it had been a hot potato, and Ethel rubbed it.
"You hurt me!" she said. "But it doesn't matter; only you must not do that again. And please understand that I don't want any more nonsense. We are cousins and friends, that is all. We never can be anything else—never!"
Tom began to beg. Tom began to implore. It was not nonsense, but sense. He meant fully all that he had said. If Ethel would only consent, he would be the happiest man living.
"Oh no, you would not. We should both be wretched. I could not make you happy, and you could not make me happy."
"Why not?" Tom demanded fiercely. He was unhappy, and therefore fierce. At this moment he felt that Ethel was worth more than all the world could offer beside. He would have sacrificed even his herbaria to win her! Who then might say that he could not make Ethel happy?