“Well?” said Surbiton, beginning to be alarmed.
“You know, Ronald dear, somehow I think you have thought–honestly, I know you have thought for a long time that you were to marry me.”
“Yes,” said Ronald with a forced laugh, for he was frightened. “I have always thought so; I think so now.”
“It is of no use to think it, Ronald dear,” said Joe, turning very pale. “I have thought of it too–thought it all over. I cannot possibly marry you, dear boy. Honestly, I cannot.” Her voice trembled violently. However firmly she had decided within herself, it was a very bitter thing to say; she was so fond of him.
“What?” asked Ronald hoarsely. But he turned red instead of pale. It was rather disappointment and anger that he felt at the first shock than sorrow or deep pain.
“Do not make me say it again,” said Joe, entreatingly. She was not used to entreating so much as to commanding, and her voice quavered uncertainly.
“Do you mean to say,” said Ronald, speaking loudly in his anger, and then dropping his voice as he remembered the passers-by,–“do you mean to tell me, Joe, after all this, when I have come to America just because you told me to, that you will not marry me? I do not believe it. You are making fun of me.”
“No, Ronald,” Joe answered sorrowfully, but regaining her equanimity in the face of Surbiton’s wrath, “I am in earnest. I am very, very fond of you, but I do not love you at all, and I never can marry you.”
Ronald was red in the face, and he trod fast and angrily, tapping the pavement with his stick. He was very angry, but he said nothing.
“It is much better to be honest about it,” said Joe, still very pale; and when she had spoken, her little mouth closed tightly.