"I think not."
"That is a cruel answer, is it not?"
"Would you have me belie my nature?" asks she, with quick agitation; "would you have me grow false, secret, deceitful? My aunts trust me: am I to prove myself unworthy of their confidence?"
"I am less to you, then, than your aunts' displeasure!"
"You are less to me than my conscience; and yet——"
With a violent effort, that betrays how far her thoughts have been travelling in company with his, she brings herself back to the present moment, and a recollection of the many reasons why she must not listen to his wooing. "Why should you believe yourself anything to me?" she asks, in a voice that quivers audibly.
"Ah, why, indeed?" returns he, bitterly. There is such pain in his voice and face that her soul yearns towards him, and she repents of her last words.
"I am wrong. You are something to me," she says, in a tone so low that he can scarcely hear it. But lovers' ears are sharp.
"You mean that, Monica?"
"Yes," still lower.