She turned her face to his, wholly unaware of the emotional stress under which he laboured, but conscious of a quality in his voice which rendered it unfamiliar. She saw his face close to hers, strained and white in the moonlight, heard his breathing, hard and deep, like the breathing of a man after violent exercise, and felt a faint surprise. Dimly she began to realise that something unusual was happening; a look of apprehension grew in her eyes.
He groped about after the sentences he had so carefully prepared, but his mind was a blank. He could think of nothing effective to say; and all the while her eyes, puzzled and questioning, were on his face.
“I love you,” he mumbled presently, and took heart of grace when the words were out and pulled her swiftly to him and kissed her. “Dear, I love you with all my soul. I want to marry you.”
Very gently she freed herself from his hold, and drew back, and sat scrutinising him with ever growing distress. She liked him so well. She hated having to hurt him; but it had never occurred to her that he was in love with her. His affection had seemed so frankly friendly hitherto.
“George, I’m sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know. I don’t feel towards you like that.”
“Perhaps not now. But you will,” he suggested. “I’ve been a little abrupt. I ought to have waited.”
“It wouldn’t have made any difference,” she said.
“Are you sure?”
“Quite sure. I’m very fond of you; but that’s all,” she added convincingly.
“Well, look here! I’m not taking ‘No’ right off like that. I’m going to wait—”