"And I have never asked anyone to marry me before," said Burke.
The wrists he held grew suddenly rigid. "You have asked me out of—out of pity—and the goodness of your heart?" she whispered.
"Quite wrong," said Burke. "I want a capable woman to take care of me—when Mary Ann goes on the bust."
"Please don't make me laugh!" begged Sylvia rather shakily. "I haven't done yet. I'm going to ask you an awful thing next. You'll tell me the truth, won't you?"
"I'll tell you before you ask," he said. "I can be several kinds of beast, but not the kind you are afraid of. I am not a faddist, but I am moral. I like it best."
The curt, distinct words were too absolute to admit of any doubt.
Sylvia breathed a short, hard sigh.
"I wonder," she said, "if it would be very wrong to marry a person you only like."
"Marriage is a risk—in any case," said Burke. "But if you're not blindly in love, you can at least see where you are going."
"I can't," she said rather piteously.
"You're afraid of me," he said.