“Forgive me, Margery,” he said, hurriedly. “I would not have spoken so soon, but something within me forced me to do so. I could not bear to see you looking so pale and ill. You want comfort now, and so I spoke. Margery, I love you! My darling, don’t be frightened. Perhaps I am rough; but I love truly—you cannot know how truly, Margery!”
But she had drawn back, and, with her face buried in her hands, had sunk into her chair again. As she felt his touch on her shoulder, her hands dropped, but her head was still lowered.
“You must not say such words,” she said, faintly. “Dear Mr. Robert, forgive me, but—but I cannot hear them. I——”
“I am a brute to tease you,” he broke in, quickly; “but, Margery, I am not sane, now! I love you so dearly; give me one kind word.”
“I cannot, I cannot!” she cried. “You must not hope. Mr. Robert, I——”
“Not hope!” he repeated, blankly. “Not hope! Do you mean that, Margery?”
“Yes,” she answered, putting one hand to her heart to check its tumultuous throbbings. “Yes; I mean it. I like you—you are so good; but love——”
The sadness of her accents touched him.
“Then forget it all,” he said, huskily. “Love does not kill. I shall get over it. And yet——” He hesitated, looked once more at her drooping figure, and then went on, hurriedly: “Don’t let this stop you from going to my mother, if you care to do so. I have to run up to London to-night. We should not meet.”
Margery rose and held out her hands to him. In an instant he had them pressed to his breast, his eyes fixed on her face; but there was no indication of what he sought in her pallid cheeks and trembling lips. He loosened his grasp.