He felt a fresh alarm, and showed it. It would be just like her! he thought.
“See here, Marion!” he said, plunging at last. “I’ve obeyed your order not to say anything about––the future. I meant not to say anything until the time was up. But you must see I can’t keep silent now, after––what’s happened. You must know I can’t go away and leave you without knowing what––it all means. You said you’d tell me as soon as you’d finished nursing––him. No, wait, please! Let me say it at once. You know I love you. I want you to marry me. I need you, Marion. There’s never been an hour, a minute that I haven’t thought of you. I can’t work––I can’t do anything without you. I love you more than––”
“Stop, Robert!” she cried. “You’re making it harder for both of us.”
“Harder––for––both of us?” he repeated slowly.
“Yes.”
There was a moment’s silence. Hillyer, while he 179 spoke, had half-consciously stopped the automobile, which stood now, humming softly, in the middle of the road that stretched white and empty ahead of them and behind them. The night breeze had risen, blowing cold from the snows, and the shadows were creeping down into the valley, as if they came from dark caverns in the hills.
“Robert,” she said sadly. “It’s no use. I must tell you. I––I can’t marry you.”
“Why?”
“You make me say it!” she cried. “Well, Robert, I––I don’t love you.”
“I’m not asking you to love me!” he rejoined, almost savagely. “I only ask you––”