The man in him alone spoke when he answered her.
"Surely, it is enough that we love each other?"
She shook her head.
"Ah, you know it is not," she replied, with the strange little smile that had so often baffled him. "I—I do so wish you would understand—and go. Or shall I find my father and tell him that you are here?"
He laid his hand against her cheek, and watched her closely.
"Is it all over,—our friendship, your love for me, everything?" he whispered. "Do you remember how sweetly you nursed me three years ago? Have you forgotten the jolly talks we had together in the Temple? And all the fun we had together in London? Is it all to come to an end like this?"
"I can't marry you; I don't love you enough for that," she said, moving restively under his touch. He stroked her cheek gently.
"Then why do you thrill when I touch you?" he asked. "Why do you not send me away?" It was his last move, and he watched its effect anxiously. She looked at him helplessly.
"I—I do send you away," she said faintly, and he made her join feebly in the laugh against herself. There was something contemptible in her surrender, she felt, as he folded her in his arms and looked down at her with a manly air of possession.
"If this is not love what is it, you solemn little Puritan?" he murmured.