“And I know you better—very much better.”
“I am glad that makes you more ready to follow sensible advice——”
“Your advice, Miss Fearing. I did not mean——”
“Mine, then, if you like it better. But I shall never offer you any more. I have offered you too much already, and I am sorry for it.”
“I would rather you gave me advice—than nothing,” said George in a lower voice.
“What else should I give you?” Her voice had a ring of surprise in it. She seemed startled.
“What you will never give, I am afraid—what I have little enough the right to ask.”
Constance laid down the work she held, and looked out of the window. There was a strange expression in her face, as though she were wavering between fear and satisfaction.
“Mr. Wood,” she said suddenly, “you are making love to me.”
“I know I am. I mean to,” he answered, with an odd roughness, as the light flashed into his eyes. Then, all at once, his voice softened wonderfully. “I do it badly—forgive me—I never did it before. I should not be doing it now, if I could help myself—but I cannot. This once—this once only—Constance, I love you with all my heart.”