When he thought of depriving himself for a long time of her society, he discovered that he admired her far more than he had suspected. It was admiration, but it was nothing more. He felt no pain at the suggestion of leaving her, but it seemed as though he were about to be robbed of some object familiar to him, to keep which was a source of unfailing, though indolent, satisfaction. He could not imagine himself angry, if some man of his acquaintance had married Mamie the next day, provided that he might talk to her as he pleased and watch her when he liked. There was not warmth enough in what he felt for her to kindle one spark of jealousy against any one whom she might choose for a husband.
But there was something added to the odd sort of attraction which the girl exercised over him, something which had only begun to influence him during the last quarter of an hour or less. She loved him, and he had just found it out. There is nothing more enviable than to love and be loved in return, and nothing more painful than to be loved to distraction by a person one dislikes. It may be said, perhaps, that nothing can be so disturbing to the judgment as to be loved by an individual to whom one feels oneself strongly attracted in a wholly different way. George Wood did not know exactly what was happening to him, and he did not feel himself able to judge his own case with any sort of impartiality; but his instinct told him to go away as soon as possible and to break off all intercourse with his cousin during some time to come. She had argued the question with him in her own way and had found answers to all he said, but he was not satisfied. It was his duty to leave Mamie, no matter at what cost, and he meant to go at once.
“My dear Mamie,” he said at last, still unconsciously admiring the grace of her attitude, “I am very sorry for myself, but there is only one way. I cannot stay here any longer.”
She raised her eyes and looked steadily at him.
“On my account?” she asked.
“Yes, and you know I am right.”
“Because I have been foolish and—and—unmaidenly, I suppose.”
“Dear child—how you talk!” George exclaimed. “I never said anything of the kind!” He was seriously embarrassed to find an answer to her statement.
“Of course you did not say it. But you probably thought it, which is the same thing. After all, it is true, you know. But then, have I not a right to be foolish, if I please? I have known you so long.”
“Yes indeed!” George answered with alacrity, for he was glad to be able to agree with her in something. “It is a long time, as you say—ever since we were children together.”