He turned away from her, and walked the whole length of the long room; away and back, before he answered her, and even then, when he had returned to her, he stood, looking at her before he spoke. And she now looked full into his face, hoping, but yet fearing; hoping that he might yield to her; and fearing his terrible displeasure should he not yield.
"Clara," he said; and he spoke solemnly, slowly, and in a mood unlike his own,—"I cannot as yet read your heart clearly; nor do I know whether you can quite so read it yourself."
"I can, I can," she answered quickly; "and you shall know it all—all, if you wish."
"I want to know but one thing. Whom is it that you love? And, Clara—," and this he said interrupting her as she was about to speak. "I do not ask you to whom you are engaged. You have engaged yourself both to him and to me."
"Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald!"
"I do not blame you; not in the least. But is it not so? as to that I will ask no question, and say nothing; only this, that so far we are equal. But now ask of your own heart, and then answer me. Whom is it then you love?"
"Herbert Fitzgerald," she said. The words hardly formed themselves into a whisper, but nevertheless they were audible enough to him.
"Then I have no further business here," he said, and turned about as though to leave the room.
But she ran forward and stopped him, standing between him and the door. "Oh, Mr. Fitzgerald, do not leave me like that. Say one word of kindness to me before you go. Tell me that you forgive me for the injury I have done you."
"Yes, I forgive you."