"There is one thing I must say, Monica," says the young man at last, lifting her face gently with one hand until her eyes look into his own: "remember, my life is in your hands."
"Do not overburden me," she answers, but in so low a voice that it can scarce be heard. Yet he hears.
"My darling, must I be a burden to you?" he says. "Monica, if this my courtship is hateful to you, or more than you can bear, dismiss me now, and I will go from you, no matter what it costs me."
"You are no true lover, to talk like that," she says, with a shadowy smile.
"I am lover enough to wish you no pain or weariness of spirit."
"I doubt you are too good for me," she answers with a little burst of feeling.
"I must be a paragon indeed if that be so," returns he. "Oh, Monica, if you could only love me!"
"I dare not." Then, as though sorry for these words, she holds out her hands to him, and says, with a quick smile, "Oh, Romeo, Romeo! wherefore art thou Romeo?"
"I wish I knew," returns he sadly. "Yet if I were sure of one thing I should not despair. Monica, tell me you don't like Ryde."
"I can't," says Monica. "He is very kind to me always. I am sure I ought to like him."