“Yes. Somebody interrupted the conversation. I think,” said Constance, blushing a little, “that it was your cousin. I wanted to say several things to you then, but it was impossible before all those people. Since we have met by accident, will you listen to me? If you would rather not, please say so and I will go away. But please do not say anything unkind. I cannot bear it and I am very unhappy.”
There was something simple and pathetic in her appeal to his forbearance, which moved him a little.
“I will do whatever you wish,” he said, in a tone that reminded her of other days. He folded his hands upon one knee and prepared to listen, looking out at the broad river.
“Thank you. I have longed for a chance of saying it to you, ever since we last met in New York. It has always seemed very easy to say until now. Yes. It is about friendship. Last Sunday I was trying to speak of it, and you were very unkind. You laughed at me.”
“I am sincerely sorry, if I did. I did not know that you were in earnest.”
“I was, and I am, very much in earnest. It is the only thing that can make my life worth living.”
“Friendship?” asked George quietly. He meant to keep his word and say nothing that could hurt her.
“Your friendship,” she answered. “Because I once made a great mistake, is there to be no forgiveness? Is it impossible that we should ever be good friends, see each other often and talk together as we did in the old days? Are you always to meet me with a stony face and hard, cruel words? Was my sin so great as that?”
“You have not committed any sin. You should not use such words.”
“Oh, do not find fault with the way I say it—it is so hard to say it at all! Try and understand me.”