Every moment I linger only makes my declaring myself more difficult. I end by giving in, and staring and listening with all my might.
"Ah! why does Bebe look so determined? Why can't she yield gracefully and be happy? I would at once, were I in her place, and feel no degradation in so doing. She is flushed and miserable to look at, her large eyes seeming larger and darker than usual through pained excitement. Yet still there is so much mistaken pride impressed upon her features as makes me fear for the part she will take in the interview. If she would but listen to her heart's dictation!
"Lord Chandos, I implore you to desist," entreats Bebe, hastily, raising one hand, to prevent his further speech. "It is worse than useless."
But he only imprisons the warning hand and continues: "Nay, hear me—that is all I ask—and then, if I am again to be rejected, be it so. But surely I have been wretched long enough, and you—-"
"I will not listen," murmurs Bebe, more deeply agitated. "The answer I gave you when you were poor is the only answer I can ever give you now." Her voice dies way, almost to a whisper.
"What do you mean by that?" exclaims Chandos, passionately. "Is the very money that I hailed with delight, principally because I dreamed it might bring me closer to you, to prove a barrier between us? Presumptuous as it may sound, I dare to believe I am not quite indifferent to you. Your manner when we parted, your eyes when we met again down here, have fostered this belief, and yet you shrink from me."
A little inarticulate cry escapes her. One hand goes to her throat; she tries vainly to withdraw the other from his grasp.
"Contradict me—if you can," he says, in a low but vehement tone.
"This is ungenerous—unmanly," she falters, her words half choked with emotion.
"Contradict me," he reiterates.