"You talk about it very philosophically!"
"About what?" She had felt that she must make him lose patience, and she succeeded.
"After all, I am a man," he said rather hoarsely. "Do you suppose it is possible for me to see you day after day, to talk with you day after day, to be alone with you day after day, as I am, to hear your voice, to touch your hand—and to be satisfied with friendship?"
"How should I know?" Cecilia asked thoughtfully. "I have never known any one as well as I know you. I never liked anyone else well enough," she added after an instant.
A very faint colour rose in her cheeks, for she was afraid that she had been too forward.
"Yes. I am sure of that," he said. "But you never feel that mere liking is turning into something stronger, and that friendship is changing into love. You never will!"
She said nothing, but looked at him steadily while he looked away from her, absorbed in his own thought and expecting no answer. When at last he felt her eyes on him, he turned quickly with a start of surprise, catching his breath, and speaking incoherently.
"You do not mean to tell me—you are not—"
Again her lips parted and she smiled at his wonder.
"Why not?" she asked, at last.