"I will not," said Heathcote, "until you hear me while I tell you that I have not played a false part with you, Anne. I did begin it as an experiment, I confess that I did; but I have ended by being in earnest—at least to a certain degree. Helen does not know me entirely; one side of me she has never even suspected."
"Mrs. Lorrington has not spoken on the subject," murmured Anne, feeling compelled to set him right, but not looking up.
"Then what has she said about me, that you should look as you do, my poor child?"
"You take too much upon yourself," replied the girl, with an effort to speak scornfully. "Why should you suppose we have talked of you?"
"I do not suppose it; I know it. I have not the heart to laugh at you, Anne: your white face hurts me like a sharp pain. Will you at least tell me that you do not believe I have been amusing myself at your expense—that you do not believe I have been insincere?"
"I am glad to think that you were not wholly insincere."
"And you will believe also that I like you—like you very, very much, with more than the ordinary liking?"
"That is nothing to me."
"Nothing to you? Look at me, Anne; you shall look once. Ah, my dear child, do you not see that I can not help loving you? And that you—love me also?" As he spoke he drew her close and looked down into her eyes, those startled violet eyes, that met his at last—for one half-moment.
Then she sprang from him, and burst into tears. "Leave me," she said, brokenly. "You are cruel."