The flush died away from the girl's face, to return two-fold.
"No!" he repeated. "You give me your love, and then, after years of separation, you offer me your friendship instead. What is that to me? How can I make that do—a lamp instead of the sun? It is too much to ask of any man: you know it. Who has taught you to play with men's hearts like this?"
"I have been too kind," said Alice, coldly. She had stifled her humiliation, and was preparing to leave the boat.
"Say rather too cruel!" returned Dick very bitterly. "Nay, not on my account. I will save you the trouble of going."
He sprang from the boat as he spoke. One moment he stood on the bank with a blight on his brave eyes; the next, he raised his hat proudly, turned on his heel and was gone.
No sooner had he disappeared than the young lady produced a little lace handkerchief, and rained her tears upon its wholly inadequate area. She sobbed for nearly five minutes; and, after that, dipped her pink fingers in the water, and made assiduous efforts to expunge the most tell-tale symptoms. Then she took up the magazine and tried to revive her interest in the story she had been reading, but she could remember nothing about it. Finally she was about to quit the boat in despair, when, looking up, whom should she see but Dick Edmonstone towering above her on the bank, hat in hand.
"I want you to forgive me," he said very humbly. She affected not to understand him, and intimated as much by raising her eyebrows.
"For what I said just now" (rapidly)—"for everything I have said since I saw you first, last night. And I want to say—if you will still have it—let us be—friends."
Her face instantly brightened; every trace of affectation vanished; she smiled gratefully upon him.
"Ah, that is sense!" said she.