“I can only retaliate. I am not one bit good. Dear, horrid child, will you put up with me?”
“Oh, I never minded!” she cried. “I loved you, good or bad.”
“And I you; only I minded. That is all the difference. There isn’t a falsity between us, Camelia,” he added.
“No, there isn’t.”
“Then, may I kiss you, and hold your hand?”
“Yes; only—first—first—” she held him off, smiling, yet still doubting, still tremulously grave, “I am not good enough; no, I am not good enough.”
“Quite good enough for me,” said Perior. “I am getting tired of your conscience, Camelia.”
THE END.
| Typographical error corrected by the etext transcriber: befere=> before {pg 274} |