"Dearest, forgive me. You must think how I feel. Can't you love and trust me?"
She thrust her hand confidingly into his: "I think I wish you'd just be friends, Oliver."
An impulse of remorse struck him. "I think I wish I could," he said ruefully.
"Then why not?"
"Oh, you don't understand—and I think you can't love me."
"Yes, I do. I'm sure I do."
He bent down and kissed her. She was thinking, and let the caress pass as though unnoticed.
"I don't think I could manage life now without you."
"Well, doesn't that mean—? Come, it just needs a little courage."
"Oh, don't talk as if I were going to the dentist's!" But she gave the hand she held an affectionate squeeze; her anger had passed. "I suppose I've got to do it," she went on. "I suppose I have. It's rather an awful thing, but I'm—I'm in a corner. Because I do love you—and, yes, I'm a coward. It's such an awful plunge, and there's—oh, everything against it! Except just you, of course. Oliver, I don't think I can come away."