"That is just it," I said, quite low.
I felt too mean, I could not pretend I loved him. I must tell the truth, and then, if he would not have me—me—Ambrosine de Calincourt Athelstan!—why, then, vulgarly dramatic or no, I should have to jump into the river to make things easy for grandmamma.
"What is 'just it'?" he asked.
"I do not love you."
His face fell.
"I kind of thought you didn't," he faltered, the bluster gone; "but"—cheering up—"of course you will in time, if you will only marry me."
"I don't think I ever shall," I managed to whisper; "but if you like to marry me on that understanding, you may."
He climbed through the window and put his arms round me.
"Darling!" he said, and kissed me deliberately.
Oh, the horror of it! I shut my eyes, and in the emotion of the moment
I bent the bow on the top of the frame of Ambrosine Eustasie.