“No—I will walk.” Then, as he stood still, rather at a loss—
“You are going to-morrow?”
“Yes.”
“Because of me?”
“Ah—that pleases you!” he said, with a smile a little forced.
“Pleases me!” The sharpness of her voice cut him, made him feel gross in his unkindness.
“It does not please me, but it is the best thing under the circumstances. Now, Camelia, you must go. I will walk with you. We won’t speak of this at all—will pretend it never happened. You must forgive my folly of last night, and get over this touching folly of yours. Come, we won’t talk of it any more,” he repeated, drawing her hand through his arm, holding it with a clasp consolatory and entreating.
She did not follow him. “No! no!” she said, half-choked, drawing away the hand. Then, suddenly, with a great sob, turning to him, she flung herself upon his breast, clung to him, her hands clutching his shoulders—
“Oh! don’t leave me! Don’t leave me! I can’t bear it!” she cried, shuddering. “I will be good! Oh, I will be good! Give me time, just wait—and see—” The words were half lost, as with hidden face she wept. “You are so cruel, so unjust—give me time and see how I will please you—how you will love me. You must love me—you must—you must.”
“Camelia! Camelia!” Perior was shocked, shaken as well. The deep note of his own voice warned him in its pity, and amazement, and distress, of the dangerous emotion that seized him. To yield again to an emotion, even though a higher one than last night’s—to yield with those thoughts of hers—those spoken thoughts—never, never.