But he held her still. "You have appealed to my love," he said. "I appeal to yours."
But that was more than she could bear; the sudden tension snapped the last shreds of her quivering strength. She broke down utterly, standing there between his hands.
He made no attempt to draw her to him. Perhaps he did not wholly trust himself. Neither did he let her go; but there was no element of cruelty about him any longer. In silence, with absolute patience, he waited for her.
She made a slight effort at last to free herself, and instantly he set her free. She sat down again at the table, striving desperately for self-control. But she could not even begin to speak to him, so choked and blinded was she by her tears.
A while longer he waited beside her; then at length he spoke. "If you really honestly feel that you can't marry me, that to do so would make for misery and not happiness; if in short your love for me is dead—I will let you go."
The words fell curt and stern, but if she had seen his face at the moment she would have realized something of what the utterance of them cost.
But her own face was hidden, her paroxysm of weeping yet shook her uncontrollably.
"Is it dead?" he said, and stooped over her, holding the back of her chair but not touching her.
She made a convulsive movement, whether of flinching from his close proximity or protest at his words it was impossible to say.
He waited a moment or two. Then: "If it isn't," he said, "just put your hand in mine!"