"You know already what it is—and why should I not speak? You want to spare me?"
She made a gesture of assent.
"I am not very easy hurt; that's one value of the hard knocks I've had; I'm equal to taking my punishment. I hardly hoped—how could I? But from the moment I saw you there on the piazza of the hotel in Colbury I knew the difference 'twixt prose and poetry. The world's been set to music since; sometimes it's sad, and sometimes it's sweet, but it's all singing rhymes. I loved you from the minute I heard your voice—but I did not begin to say my prayers to you till that night in the wheel; oh, you seemed so kind, so good, made in a special creation, unlike all in heaven or earth—not an angel—'cause you are a woman; not a woman—'cause you are a blessed saint! Oh, I lived to see you, and in all my troubles I'd only have to think of you, and though I never expected you to speak to me again my heart would be light—light!"
He broke off suddenly.
"Oh, I distress you;" for her head was bent low and he saw the tears falling from her eyes on her little trembling riding gloves. "And you are so kind; you wanted to spare me."
"No," she said, suddenly, brokenly; "I wanted to spare myself, for, oh—oh, I care as much as you—and more; more!"
She could not look at him, but she knew that his face was irradiated.
"Then—why—why can't we be happy together? Say it again! I can't believe it!"
"No—no——" She was calming herself, sorry and dismayed that she had said aught. She had lost her self-control, and was struggling hard for composure.
"You mean that your friends would object? I would not have spoken a word, but for this change. I told you that if I had a chance for life on a better scale I'd take it. I have the means to make your life comfortable; I could not, I would not have asked you to make any sacrifice. Ought you to let your friends prevent our marriage if you care—if you really care?"