“No. You must not speak of it again. I am only an incident in your life. Set me aside. Forget this afternoon. You must forget it.”
“You won’t consider? You won’t wait for another day’s judgment?”
“No.”
Jim turned away his face, turned it away from her lest the embers of the sunset should show how gray, how tired, how discouraged it was.
“I—I’m sorry,” she said, softly.
He turned and smiled. “I am glad,” he said. “Glad I love you, no matter what comes between now and the end. I shall not worry you again with it, but I want you to know, to be sure in your heart, day by day, every hour, that I do love you and am longing for you. I have spoiled your evening.”
“No,” she said. “It has been—sweet. So sweet!”
He was startled to see her burst into tears, and sob with great, wrenching sobs that shook her small body.
Presently she became calm, dried her eyes, smiled, and her smile was the ghost of a spirit of wistfulness.
“If only,” she said, tremulously, “I were like other girls. But I’m not. I’m me. I’m selfish. I despise myself.”