“I don’t like you in those clothes,” she said.
“Do I look a sight?” he answered.
They were shy of one another.
“I’ll make you some tea,” she said.
“No, I must go.”
“Must you?” And she looked at him again with the wide, strained, doubtful eyes. And again, from the pain of his breast, he knew how he loved her. He went and bent to kiss her, gently, passionately, with his heart’s painful kiss.
“And my hair smells so horrible,” she murmured in distraction. “And I’m so awful, I’m so awful! Oh, no, I’m too awful.” And she broke into bitter, heart-broken sobbing. “You can’t want to love me, I’m horrible.”
“Don’t be silly, don’t be silly,” he said, trying to comfort her, kissing her, holding her in his arms. “I want you, I want to marry you, we’re going to be married, quickly, quickly—tomorrow if I can.”
But she only sobbed terribly, and cried:
“I feel awful. I feel awful. I feel I’m horrible to you.”