“Why not?” he asked, calmly.
“You ought not to ask me,” I answered. “You know my story.”
He laughed outright in kindly contempt. Then I knew I had made a great mistake. I should have given him some other reason. This one he would laugh to scorn. And because I had given it first he would deem it the chief one in my thoughts. Before I could stop him he had taken one of my hands and was smoothing it in his great brown palm. Somehow I forgot to draw it away.
“Did you ever seriously imagine that any such circumstance could make one iota of difference to any man who loved you?” he asked, in a mild wonder. “It is preposterous.”
“It is not preposterous,” I declared. “How can you say so? I am—nobody. I have not even a name.”
“Will you please not talk nonsense?” he interrupted, firmly. “We both know quite well in our hearts that such a circumstance as you allude to could not make the slightest difference—if you cared for me as I care for you. All I want to know is—do you care—a little? If you will give me—if you can—just a little share of your love, the rest will come. I should not be afraid to wait. I would take my chance. I have cared for you from the moment you first came here.”
I looked up at him with wet eyes, but with a faint smile.
“You managed to conceal your sentiments admirably on our first meeting,” I remarked.
He laughed. He was getting absolutely confident; and all this time I was drifting with a full knowledge of the shipwreck ahead.
“I was brutal,” he said. “Somehow, do you know, you irritated me that morning? You looked so calm and self-possessed, and your very daintiness made me feel rough and coarse. It was like an awakening for me. Yet I loved you all the time.”