“I will, then,” he said. “But you must give me your true reason for sending me away.”
“For your—happiness,” she said, with a sigh.
“My—happiness?” he repeated, bitterly. “Even though you may hate me because your father wished—that—I would rather stay near you, even though you would not look at me, or speak to me—than go away—now.”
He hoped his earnestness might have some effect in eliciting the truth. But she still sat there dumbly, miserably. After a pause:
“You are—very kind—he used to say so,” she murmured, with a sob.
He felt somewhat exasperated.
“I am not kind,” he said. “And I never say anything I do not mean and feel. Don’t you believe me?”
“Really kind people do not know when they are kind,” she said, raising her grieved eyes and speaking more firmly. “Make no mistake, Mr. Paull. I understand your motives, which seem good to you. But they are not the best, or even good, for you or for me. I am positively certain of this.”
“My motives?” he said, scornfully. “Then, I have none! I only know—that I love you!” he added, passionately.
She fastened, as if in perversity, on the first half of his speech.