His touch was a disgrace, but she yielded her hand to his; she wished his fingers might burn like fire, to brand her punishment. Writhing in spirit as she felt herself unclean, for very scorn would not resist him.
"Judith," he repeated, his hope rising, "you are not ill?"
"No." She turned and looked upon him resolutely; she would see once more this man whom she had admired.
"If anything I have said," he went on, "if I have—oh, did it come over you then so strongly that you left the table? Did you feel that we are made for each other?"
She withdrew her hand quickly. "Made for each other!"
His face changed, the eagerness was checked, and he said the conventional words, conventionally: "I love you."
She looked into him: how small he was! How cold his voice, which should have been impassioned! "Love me?" she asked. "You love crooked ways!"
Slowly he rose. "What is this?" he asked.
"I so felt our—sympathy, that I left the table? Oh, yes, yes!" Scorn overcame her; again she hid her face. Oh, but to die from the strength of this hatred of herself!
She heard him walk away; then he returned and stood before her. "I do not understand you," he said. "I have been foolish, perhaps, but I told the truth. I do feel that we are made for each other. Will you marry me?"