She raised herself from her easy, reclining position, and regarded him earnestly.
“What you desire,” she said in a restrained manner, “would be little short of a crime for me. What manner of wife should I be to you when my every thought is given to another?”
His face put on the set look of one who has shut his teeth hard together.
“I anticipated this repulse,” he said after a pause; “so what you have just assured me of does not affect my wish or my resolution to continue my plea.”
“Would you marry a woman who feels herself as closely bound to another, or the memory of another, as if the marriage rite had been actually performed? Oh, Louis, how could you force me to these disclosures?”
“I am seeking no disclosure, but it is impossible for me to continue silent now.”
“Why?”
“Why? Because I love you.”
They sat so close together he might have touched her by putting out his hand, but he remained perfectly still, only the pale excitement of long repression speaking from his face; but she shrank back at his words and raised her hand as if about to receive a blow.
“Do not be alarmed,” he continued, noticing the action; “my love cannot hurt you, or it would have killed you long ago.”