He held out his arms as though he thought that she might perhaps come to him. Indeed he had no idea of any such coming on her part; but she, as she looked at him, almost thought that it was her duty to go. Had she a right to withhold herself from him, she who loved him so dearly? Had he stepped forward and taken her in his arms it might be that all power of refusal would soon have been beyond her power.
"Mr. Stanbury," she said, "you have confessed yourself that it is impossible."
"But do you love me;—do you think that it is possible that you should ever love me?"
"You know, Mr. Stanbury, that you should not say anything further. You know that it cannot be."
"But do you love me?"
"You are ungenerous not to take an answer without driving me to be uncourteous."
"I do not care for courtesy. Tell me the truth. Can you ever love me? With one word of hope I will wait, and work, and feel myself to be a hero. I will not go till you tell me that you cannot love me."
"Then I must tell you so."
"What is it you will tell me, Nora? Speak it. Say it. If I knew that a girl disliked me, nothing should make me press myself upon her. Am I odious to you, Nora?"
"No; not odious,—but very, very unfair."