He was patient. That much wisdom was given him in this hour. It grew dusk. Jim could only see the dark huddle of her body beyond the mast. It stirred. She was at his side again.
“You don’t love me. You can’t love me. I am not lovable, I know.”
“Your word shall be my law—except for this one time. I do love you.”
“No! No! It is pity, sympathy, something. I told you once what love would be if it came to me. It would be no gentle thing. It would make you hate me. You do not want my love.”
“It is the one thing I want.”
“I mustn’t,” she whispered to herself. “I mustn’t.” Then to Jim: “I don’t love you. You would repent it if you had made me love you. While I was up there”—she pointed to the bow—“I thought of marrying you—to escape from Diversity. Yes, I thought of that—without love. But it would be no escape. You are tied to Diversity. It would be the same as before. I hate Diversity. It smothers me. If I loved you I wouldn’t marry you. Diversity would stand between us.”
Jim sat quietly. He had no hope on which to base expectation of any other answer. How could she love him? He had not tried to win her love; had pounced suddenly with talk of love.
“How could you love me?” he said, repeating his thought. “But won’t you let me work for your love? I should try to earn it. If love came you would forget that Diversity was hateful to you. It would be a garden to you as it is to me—for my love had blossomed there.”
“No,” she said, sharply. “If I worshiped you, and you asked me to live in that miserable town, with its miserable people, I should refuse. It would torture me, but I could not live there.”
“Think,” he urged. “Take time to think. This has come to you unexpectedly. Wait before you set your will against my love. Give me my chance.”