“But I do ask, and I want you to answer me. Why do you try not to think of love?”
“Because—the—the person I could love is not as I am.”
“How do you mean?”
“His rank is different to mine,” answered Linda, in a low, sad tone.
“His rank! What has rank to do with it? If a man really loves he never thinks of these things. Linda, who is the person you could love? Will you tell me?”
Again Linda looked in his face, and their eyes met; Linda’s said very plainly—at least she intended them to say—“You are the person I could love”; and thus Dereham understood their meaning.
“Then—then do love me, dearest,” he said, bending closer, and half-whispering in her ear. “Let my rank be yours; your life be mine—be my wife?”
Linda Falconer smiled gently as she listened to the words. She had wished to listen to them for some little while, but she had not been in a hurry. She was too wise, too cold, to allow the young man to think she was in any haste to receive his proposal. But as he had proposed, she was also too wise to allow the opportunity to pass.
“But are you sure, quite sure, of your own heart?” she asked, pensively. “You heard what Kathleen Weir said—and—and unless you really love me—”
“I do most deeply, most truly; I have thought of this almost ever since I met you, but I was never sure of you; you do not make a rush at a fellow like some women do, and—and though I was afraid I liked you all the better for it.”