“Not able! not able! Yanna.”
“Nonsense! If you are man enough to ask a 103 woman to be your wife, you ought to be man enough to do it with all customary honors. There is no use in further discussion, Harry. From the position I have taken, I cannot, in justice to myself, move a hair’s breadth.”
“Is a man not to honor his mother, and help her, and so on?”
“A man is to honor his mother with all his heart. He is to help her in every way he can; but he is also to honor the woman he asks to be his wife. It is a poor rose-tree that can only bear one perfect rose; it is a poor heart that has room only for one perfect love;—but I will not even seem to plead, for what ought to be rendered with the utmost spontaneity. We had better say ‘Good-bye!’”
She rose with quiet dignity, and stood with an expectant air. Harry also rose, and began to button his gloves, and as he did so, said: “Surely, you will write to me! I do not hope for love letters, but just sometimes a few kind, wise words! You will write, Yanna?”
“It would not be prudent. It would not be right.”
“Prudent! Right! Oh, Yanna! How provoking you can be!”
“It would not be good form, then. Do you understand that better?”
“You will do nothing for me?”
She did not answer. She was very pale, her eyes were cast down, her mouth trembled, her hand clasped nervously the back of the chair by which she stood. She did not dare to look at Harry. He was so troubled, so reproachful, so handsome.