The man was profoundly affected, shaken to the very depths of his nature; but he felt that he understood her; and so great was his respect for this unexpected confidence, that, chaotic and fanciful as its tenor might be, he exerted a mighty effort to restrain a swelling tide that threatened to sweep him from his feet and leave him pouring out his passion in fervid incoherences, kneeling there before her.
"Charlotte, I can only repeat that I love you. I have waited. But, dearest, now—now," he came quickly close up to her, "now can you make this confession and still hesitate? Can you look at me and still say that any obstacle stands between us? Oh! Charlotte, Charlotte! My love can no longer be denied!"
Her eyes were downcast, her bosom rose and fell tumultuously; but when he would have taken her in his arms, she stopped him.
"Oh, don't—don't, Mobley," in a whisper. "There are—there are other things." Although he obeyed her, he stood with arms outstretched, his attitude an impassioned appeal from which the woman turned away her eyes.
"Since you have been here with Joyce," he resumed, after a moment, "it has been a delight to watch you go about the house; for it made it so easy to fancy that you would come and go thus always. Charlotte, dear heart, look at me."
Slowly the beautiful eyes, suffused with wonderful softness and light, rose to the appealing hands, to his own eager orbs, and straightway dropped again.
"Charlotte, will you not stay? Dear?"
"Mobley, I—I can't."
Quite suddenly she clenched her slim fingers together in a little gesture of helplessness. Her next words were inconsequential.
"Oh, why does not Mr. Converse return? Where can he be? Has he abandoned us?"