"Oh, Alice," cried he, "did you mean that? Say that you didn't! I have never changed, never can. Oh, say that you are the same. Say that you only meant to tease me, or try me, or anything you like—anything but that you meant all that about our being altered, and forgetting the past—" his voice was piteous in its appeal; "say that you didn't mean it!" he repeated in a whisper.
"I did mean it," Alice replied; not harshly or coldly, but with due deliberation.
Dick turned pale. He grasped the gunwale nervously with each hand, and leaned forward.
"Then I—no longer—have your love?" he asked in a hollow voice.
Alice looked at him reproachfully; there was even indignation in her glance.
"How can you force such things from me? Have you no pride?" He winced. "But, since you press for an explanation, you shall have one. Before you went away I knew no one. I was a child; I had always been fond of you; my head was full of nonsense; and, when you asked me, I said I loved you. It was true, too, in a childish way."
"Go on," said Dick, in a low voice.
Alice was flushed, and her eyes sparkled, but her self-possession was complete.
"Well, you come back after four years, and, it seems, expect to find me still a child. Instead of that, I am a woman—a sensible woman," with a good humoured twinkle of the eyes, "disinclined to go on with the old nonsense just where it left off—you must admit that that would be absurd? But for the rest, I am as fond of you, Dick, as I was then—only without the childish nonsense. No one is more delighted to see you back, and welcome you, than I am; no one is more your friend. Dear Dick," she added in a tone of earnest entreaty, "cannot we be friends still?"
"No!" exclaimed Dick, hoarsely.