“I am very sorry,” I said, slowly.
He flashed a keen glance upon me. His eyes tried to force mine to meet them. I kept them away.
“You must not be sorry,” he said, impetuously; “you must be glad.”
But I shook my head.
“There is nothing to be glad about,” I cried, with a sob in my throat. “I do—I do—not—”
“Go on!” he pressed, relentlessly. “I do not care for you in that way,” he repeated slowly. “Is that true? An hour ago I should have doubted you. But now—look at me and tell me so.”
I nerved myself to a desperate effort. I looked up and met his stern, compelling gaze. My cheeks were pale. The words came slowly and with difficulty. But I told my lie well.
“I do not care for you. I could never think of marrying you.”
He rose at once. The tears came to my eyes with a rush. He was very pale, and there was a look in his face which hurt me.
“Thank you,” he said; “you are very explicit, and I have been a clumsy fool. But you might have stopped me before. Goodbye!”