"Not one," says she quickly. "Mr. Beauclerk, if I might implore you not to say another word——"
"Only one more," pleads he, coming up smiling as usual. "Just one, Joyce—let me say my last word; it may make all the difference in the world between you and me now. I love you—nay, hear me!"
She has risen, and he, rising too, takes possession of both her hands. "I have come here to-day to ask you to be my wife; you know that already—but you do not know how I have worshiped you all these dreary months, and how I have kept silent—for your sake."
"And for 'my sake' why do you speak now?" asks she. She has withdrawn her hands from his. "What have you to offer me now that you had not a year ago?"
After all, it is a great thing to be an accomplished liar. It sticks to Beauclerk now.
"Why! Haven't you heard?" asks he, lifting astonished brows.
"I have heard nothing!"
"Not of my coming appointment? At least"—modestly—"of my chance of it?"
"No. Nothing, nothing. And even if I had, it would make no difference. I beg you to understand once for all, Mr. Beauclerk, that I cannot listen to you."
"Not now, perhaps. I have been very sudden——"