“I care for only one thing in this world,” he said, tremulously. “Have I lost it? I didn't mean to ask you, that last night, although you answered. Have I no chance? Is it still the same? Do I come too late?”
The butterfly fluttered in his hand and then away.
She drew back and looked at him a moment.
“There is one thing you must always understand,” she said gently, “and that is that a woman can be grateful. I give you all the gratitude there is in me, and I think I have a great deal; it is all yours. Will you always remember that?”
“Gratitude? What can there—”
“You do not understand now, but some day you will. I ask you to remember that my every act and thought which bore reference to you—and there have been many—came from the purest gratitude. Although you do not see it now, will you promise to believe it?”
“Yes,” he said simply.
“For the rest—” She paused. “For the rest—I do not love you.”
He bowed his head and did not lift it.
“Do you understand?” she asked.