"No, I 'd be a very poor sort," he laughed, "if I stopped work because I was rich. I 'd have no self-respect—"
"No?" she said dully. The trembling had passed now. She was just numb, numb and dead.
"But as to marrying an Irish girl, Lady Margery—Margery—"
She stood up and turned about. She was smiling quizzically.
"You 're not proposing to marry me, are you?"
"Yes."
"Don't. Don't, O'Conor," she said. "Please don't."
"Why?"
"Because of this—" she looked at him squarely—"I like you. I like you immensely. To me you 're everything a man should be, but just—I don't seem to see you that way. I don't love—do you see? And I don't think I ever could. No. I never could."
"Well, that's straight. Thanks."