“Mayn’t I try to make you care?”
“I don’t think so,” said Rose slowly.
“Is there somebody else? No, don’t tell me if you don’t want to.”
But his face had altered.
“It’s like this. I don’t hold with second marriages, like I said before, and I had a rotten time the first time, and if any one had told me, when Jim died, that I’d ever run the risk of putting my head through the same noose a second time, I’d have called them a liar. Neither more nor less. But there’s a—person that I’m sort of attracted by, in a way, though I don’t know that there’s much sense in it, because he’s never said a syllable of that sort to me, and so,” said Rose, very much flushed and implacably straightforward, “if I ever did do anything in that line, I suppose I should want it to be him. But, mind you, I haven’t got any reason to think it ever will be, and I should have to be a long sight surer of myself than I am now.”
“I see,” said the doctor slowly.
“I—I’m sorry,” said Rose.
“Don’t let it make any difference, my dear. I don’t give up hope, but I shan’t worry you. Honestly, I think you and I could find happiness together, but these things aren’t lightly come by. Will you go on just as before and let me see you very often, even if you do leave Squires? And, above all, let me be of use to you whenever I can?”
“You’ve been the best friend I’ve had, ever since I came to England.” Rose stood up and gave him both her hands in an impetuous gesture. “I like you much too much ever to let it be anything but the real thing—Maurice.”
She had never called him so before.