“I don’t know what to make of you,” he began. “Am I to understand that you were going to marry me, though you did not love me, so long as you thought I did not love you, but that now, when you know that I really do love you, for that very reason you refuse to marry me?”
“That’s it,” she cried. “You must see how I feel about it. It wouldn’t be fair to marry you now I know you are in earnest, would it?”
“But if I am willing,” he urged; “if I want you as much as ever; if I feel confident that I can get you to love me a little in time; if you will only let me hope—”
“Oh, I couldn’t,” she answered. “I couldn’t cheat you now I really know you—now that I like you a great deal better than I did.”
He was about to protest again, when she interrupted him.
“Don’t let’s talk about it any more,” she said, impetuously; “it has given me a headache already.”
Forbidden to speak upon the one subject about which he had something to say, the man said nothing, and for a minute or more there was silence.
They could hear the patter of the rain as it pelted against the window near which they were sitting. Then there was a slight flash of lightning, followed by a distant growl of thunder.
A shiver ran through Mrs. Randolph, and she gave a little nervous laugh.
“I hate lightning,” she explained, “and I detest a storm—don’t you? I don’t see how any one can ever choose to be a sailor.”