"But why should it be impossible? I love you, you are more to me than my life,—I can't live without you. You must be my wife or—" He made a gesture of utter despair, "Ragna, dearest, you must be mine or my life is finished."
"Signor Valentini, you must not talk like this—it is quite impossible."
"But why?"
Ragna closed her eyes wearily and drew a long breath. The moment she dreaded had come, and so suddenly that she found herself unprepared. She still tried to gain time.
"Because—because I cannot marry anyone. But it should be enough that I do not love you."
"But I will marry you without that and trust to the future."
"I tell you it is impossible for me to marry anyone."
He rose to his feet and stood looking down at her searchingly. She turned uneasily under his gaze, and reddened, her fan slipped from her knees to the floor.
"Ragna," he said reproachfully, "what is it? Cannot you tell me? I am not like other men, I love you for yourself alone, you can tell me anything, anything,—nothing would change my feeling for you. Have I not been a good friend? Have I not earned the right to your confidence? Tell me all, dear,—you owe me at least an explanation of your refusal."
Ragna obstinately kept the lids lowered over her eyes; she twisted and untwisted her fingers in silent agony.