“If you have no motives, I have motives,” she said, slowly. “Therefore I am the one to see clearly. And I plainly see, that the best thing for both of us is—that you should go away.”
“But—why?” cried Hugh. (In his life, he had never felt more inclined to swear.) “That is all I ask you to tell me! Why?”
“I gave you my reason,” she said. “For your happiness!”
“My happiness! What do you know—or care—about my happiness?” he said, scornfully.
“More than you care for mine!” she said, rousing a little. “Or you would go, without asking why!”
“No, that I certainly should not,” he returned. “Oh, what waste of time this beating about the bush is! Lilia, I plainly see what all this means. You cannot love me!”
He began pacing the room again. She, poor child, worn out by sleepless nights fighting against her inclinations—as she thought, for the welfare of this man whom she passionately loved—gazed sadly at him, a pathetic gaze of renunciation, which, if he had seen, might have enlightened him.
But he did not see.
“Well?” he said, at last, almost fiercely, halting opposite to her. “Your answer?”
“I forget—what you asked,” she said, timidly.