“No—I don’t want to think it. I misunderstood—that’s all. Put it all on me.”
He was very young, and he was cruelly hurt. He spoke coldly, lest his words should choke him.
“No,” answered Katharine, speaking almost to herself, “there are other people to blame, whose fault it is.”
“Perhaps.”
A silence followed. It was warm in the room. One of the windows was a little raised, and the bells of the horse-cars jingled cheerfully in the spring air. At last Katharine spoke again.
“I suppose it doesn’t mean much to you when I say I’m sorry,” she said. “If you knew, it would mean much more. I’m very much in earnest, and I shall never forget this afternoon, for I know I’ve hurt you. I think you’re a little angry just now. It’s natural. You have a right to be. Since you think that I’ve made you understand things I didn’t mean, I wonder you’re not much more angry—that you don’t say much harder things to me. It wouldn’t really be just, because I’m very unhappy, whether I’m to blame or not. But you’re generous. I shall always be grateful to you. You won’t bear me any more ill-will than you can help, will you?”
“Ill-will? I? No! I’m too fond of you—and besides, I’ve not done hoping yet. I shall always hope, as long as I live.”
“No—you mustn’t hope anything,” answered Katharine, determined not to allow him the shadow of any consolation. “It wouldn’t be just to me. It would be like thinking that I were capricious. I’m not going to talk to you about friendship, and all that, as people do in books. I want you to try and forget me altogether—for I believe you—you really care for me. So there’s no other way—when one really cares. Don’t come here any more for the present—don’t try to meet me at parties—don’t ask me to dance with you. The world’s very big, and you needn’t see me unless you wish to. By and by it will be different. Perhaps you could go abroad for a little while again. I don’t know what your plans are, but it would be better if you could. The season will be over—it’s almost over now, and then you’ll go one way and I shall go another, and there’s no reason why we should meet. We mustn’t. It wouldn’t be fair to me, and it wouldn’t be fair to you, either. You see—it’s not as though you were disagreeable. If we meet at all, I couldn’t help being very much the same as ever, and you know what I’ve made you think of that. You’ll promise, won’t you?”
“Not to try and see you sometimes? No, I won’t promise that. I shall always hope—”
“But there is no hope. There’s not the slightest possibility of any hope. If you knew about me, you’d understand it.”