Still she said nothing, and he tried gentleness once more.
"Come, Jan, sweetest, you have made your offering—your sweet, Quixotic self-sacrifice—and it is not accepted! Say that's my want of moral altitude, if you like. So be it. I won't sacrifice myself."
"It's for her to take, not for you. I offer it to her, not to you."
"But I don't offer it to her. Would she care for such an offer? She may love me or not—I don't know; but if she does, she will not take my hand without my heart."
"You must love her. If you could love me, how much more must you love her?"
"You are mad!" he answered, almost roughly, "mad to say such a thing! I know you love me, and I will not listen to it. Do you hear? I shall come back and see you again, and I will not listen to this."
She heard his imperious words with no sign but a little shiver.
"There," he went on, "you are still ill. I'll come back."
"No use," she murmured. "I can't, Dale."