“Then what is it, dear?” asked Will. She still let him kiss her.
“Oh, just that I cannot ever marry you, because I cannot ever love you, as I know Englishwomen love their husbands.”
“I will marry you, and gladly, even thus.”
“No, W-Will, I could not marry you—I cannot even think of it. It is quite impossible. All I can be to you is your very dearest friend.”
“May I not try to win you from your decision?”
“Oh yes,” she said, “if you have any mercy on me, try, and I will pray the Mother of God that you may prevail: but alas! it is not, is not, possible.”
“May I kiss you when we are like this?”
A ghost of a smile flitted across his face as he caught sight of himself in a mirror which had a Chinese landscape painted on it. His smile bore fruit: it brought her back to herself. She laughed—“Yes, dear W-Will; kiss me, woo me your very best way, and win me—do!”
Will was very thankful for that laugh, that sudden return to her self-possession and everyday voice. To a man of his sensitive temperament it is not easy to act on such a permission from a woman highly strung; he feels that he is taking advantage of her weakness—that he is acting on a submission she would not have made in calmer moments. But if she gives the same permission when she is calmed down, and with a little laugh, he feels that he is playing fair.