"If you meant awhile ago some such thing as I hinted—I will have nothing to do with it. You must marry me—or it's nothing at all."
Her gaze did not wander, but before his wondering eyes she seemed to fade, fade toward colorlessness insignificance. The light died from her eyes, the flush of health from her white skin, the freshness from her lips, the sparkle and vitality from her hair. A slow, gradual transformation, which he watched with a frightened tightening at the heart.
She said slowly: "You—want—me—to—marry—you?"
"I've always wanted it, though I didn't realize," replied he. "How else could I be sure of you? Besides—" He flushed, added hurriedly, almost in an undertone—"I owe it to you."
She seated herself deliberately.
After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on: "If you married me, I know you'd play square. I could trust you absolutely. I don't know—can't find out much about you—but at least I know that."
"But I don't love you," said she.
"You needn't remind me of it," rejoined he curtly.
"I don't think so—so poorly of you as I used to," she went on. "I understand a lot of things better than I did. But I don't love you, and I feel that I never could."
"I'll risk that," said Norman. Through his clinched teeth, "I've got to risk it."