“You love me?” said Olivia, as if to herself.
“Yes,” he responded. “Is there anything strange in that? Why shouldn’t I love you? All—all the men I know, all the men who know you, do, and why shouldn’t I? I’m not made of wood or stone. I do love you!”
“And you want me to be your wife?” calmly, coldly, almost like a statue.
He winced at the matter-of-fact words.
“Of course. Yes, Miss Vanley—Olivia——”
“It is so strange,” she murmured, again as if to herself.
“Strange! how strange?” he echoed, fidgeting with his handkerchief.
“Strange that you should want me, while I——”
She stopped and eyed him with a look in her dreamy, tear-dimmed eyes, that ought to have stricken him to stone.
“You—you mean that you don’t lo—care for me?” he said, eagerly. “Miss Vanley—Olivia—I don’t ask you to, I don’t expect it. Why should I? I know I’m not fit, that I’m not worthy, that there are many men better fitted—I mean—I don’t want you—that is, I don’t count on that. Not at present. I’m content to wait.”