"You'd marry me, knowing that I didn't love you?"
She turned her eyes to his. The pathos of that touched her. His senses swam when she looked at him.
"Yes," he said thickly. "You might not love me now—you would."
There, he spoilt it all again. She was so certain of its impossibility; he was so confident of his success. With the sentiment of his humility, the unselfishness of his devotion, he might have won her even then. The pity in a woman is often minister to her heart. But pity left her when he made so sure.
"Oh, it's no good talking like this," she said gently; "I know I shouldn't."
He leant nearer to her, peering into her face. "Well, will you think about it—will you think it over?" He felt certain that when she thought of that home of her own, she would be bound to relent—any woman would. "Let me know some other time."
"If you like. I don't know why you should be so good to me."
Passionately he seized her arm with his hand. "Because I love you—don't you see?"
"Yes; I see. I shouldn't think there's much to love in me though."
"Wouldn't you? My God—I do! Will you give me a kiss?"