“No. How constantly you think of her!”
“Of course.”
“Can I speak to you for a moment?” She led the way to the small back room where he had sat with his head on his arms. “I want to tell you—” she began. Then she stopped.
His face had a worn look, his eyes were dull—a dullness caused by sorrow and the pressure of care. But to her, as he stood there, he was supreme, her whole heart went out to him. “How I love him!” The feeling swept over her like a flood, overwhelming everything else.
“What is it you wish to tell me?” Paul asked, seeing that she still remained silent.
“How can I do it!—how can I do it!” she said to herself.
“Don’t tell me, then, if it troubles you,” he added, his voice taking the kindly tones she dreaded.
Her courage vanished. “Another time,” she said hurriedly, and, turning, she left the room.
But as she went up the stairs she knew that there would be no other time. “Never! never! I shall never tell him. What do I care for truthfulness, or courage, compared with one word of his spoken in that tone!”