"Yes; as acquaintances. It would be impossible for me to meet you in that way. I hardly think you know or realize what my feelings to you are. I can only meet you to tell you again and again that I love you. You are so cold yourself that you cannot understand my—my—my impetuosity, if you choose to call it so."
"In three or four months, Mr. Bertram, you will be laughing at your own impetuosity—when I perhaps shall be grieving over my own coldness." These last words she said with a smile in which there was much archness, and perhaps also a little encouragement.
"You will tell me at any rate that I may hope?"
"No; certainly not. You will hope enough for anything you really desire without my telling you. But I will not joke, as I believe that you are serious."
"Oh, you believe so, do you?"
"Yes; I suppose I must believe so. Your declaration the other day took me very much by surprise. I had no conception that you had any feelings towards me of that sort. I certainly had entertained none such towards you. Love with me cannot be the birth of a moment. I cannot say that I will love merely because I am asked. You would not wish me to be false even in your own favour. We will part now, Mr. Bertram; and being apart we shall better learn to know, each of us, how we value the other. On my part I can truly say that I hope we shall meet again—at any rate, as friends." And then she held out her hand to him.
"Is this to be our farewell?" said he, without at once taking it.
"It shall be if you so please. We shall meet again only at the public table."
"And you will not tell me that I may hope?"
"I will tell you nothing further, Mr. Bertram. You will shake hands with me as with a friend, will you not?"