“I cannot,” he answered sadly, “and you know why.”
She was impatient, but she looked at him for a moment with a gleam of sadness in her eyes.
“It would be much better for you,” she said, “if you would make up your mind to put that folly behind you.”
“It may be folly, but it is not the sort of folly one forgets.”
“You had better try then, Cecil,” she said, “for it is quite hopeless. You know that. Be a man and leave off dwelling upon the impossible. I do not wish to marry, and I do not expect to, but if ever I did, it would not be you!”
He was silent for a few moments—looking gloomily across at the girl, loathing the thought that she, his ideal of all those things which most become a woman, graceful, handsome, perfectly bred, should ever be brought into contact at all with such a man as this one whose confidence she was planning to gain. No, he could not go away and leave her! He must be at hand, must remain her friend.
“I wonder,” he said, “couldn't we have one of our old evenings again? Listen—”
“I would rather not,” she interrupted softly. “If you will persist in talking of a forbidden subject you must go away. Be reasonable, Cecil.”
He was silent for a moment. When he spoke again his tone was changed.
“Very well,” he said. “I will try to let things be as you wish—for the present. Now do you want to hear some news?”