Lyle turned very pale. “That means to say that you think me unworthy to be yours.”
“No—no—I did not say you were unworthy; you are dear to me, you always were, though not in that way. It goes to my very heart to inflict even a momentary pain; but I cannot, cannot marry you!”
Much agitated, Olive hid her face. Lyle moved away to the other end of the room. Perhaps, with manhood's love was also dawning manhood's pride.
“There must be some reason for this,” he said at last. “If I am dear to you, though ever so little, a stronger love for me might come in time. Will it be so?”
“No, never!”
“Are you quite sure?”
“Quite sure.”
“Perhaps I am too late,” he continued, bitterly. “You may already love some one else. Tell me, I have a right to know.”
She blushed crimson, and then arose, not without dignity. “I think, Lyle, you go too far; we will cease this conversation.”
“Forgive me, forgive me!” cried Lyle, melted at once, and humbled too. “I will ask no more—I do not wish to hear. It is misery enough for me to know that you can never be mine, that I must not love you any more!”