“You may. I may. But waiting must have a limit——”
“Say this, Constance,” said George. “Say that if, by next May, you do not love me less than you do now, you will be my wife.”
“No. I must love you more. If I love you better than now, it will show that my love is always to increase, and I will marry you.”
“In May?”
“In May, next year. But this is no engagement. I make no promise, and I will take none from you. You are free, and so am I, until the first of May——”
“I shall never be free again, dear,” said George, happily, for he anticipated great things of the strange agreement she proposed. He put his arm about her and drew her to him very tenderly. Another second and his lips would have touched her cheek, just where they had touched it once before. But Constance drew back quickly and slipped from his arm.
“No, no,” she laughed, “that is not a part of the agreement. It is far too binding.”
George’s face was grave and sad. Her action had given him a sharp thrust of painful disappointment, and he did his best not to hide it. Constance looked at him a moment.
“Am I not right?” she asked.
“You are always right—even when you give me pain,” he answered with a shade of bitterness.