She stood before him with her head bent. The fire was almost out, and it seemed to him that the world had grown dark and very still and a little desolate. It was as if something had gone—some warm and living presence. In his heart he was vaguely aware of what had happened. It was the dear, jolly little playmate who had gone, taking with her the innocent glamour of this hour, driven away by the note of ardor in his voice.
He was sorry and uneasy, but he would not stop.
“Won’t you give me a chance?” he asked. “Let me see you again!”
“I will,” she promised. “I’ll come here again—some other evening—like this!”
He understood very well what she meant. She wanted to recapture the vanished charm, to come again in the same happy and careless way, to talk by the fire again; but he would not have it so.
“Look here!” he said. “Will you let me take you out to dinner to-morrow?”
She did not answer, but stood there with her head averted; and a fear seized him that was like anger.
“I don’t want to bother you,” he said curtly. “If you don’t want to see me again—”
“Well, I—I do!” she cried unsteadily. “Only—”
He would go on.