His impatience would not wait for a reply in words. Her face would give it truly, that he knew, and he stooped over her, taking her by the wrists, in order to draw her hands apart. She turned to him then bravely enough.
'Rose!'
It was almost a cry, as, stooping lower still, he knelt before her, his eyes on hers incredulous, yet soft. Then suddenly, still clasping her slender wrists, he buried his face upon them on her lap, muttering--
'Oh, I am sorry!--I am sorry!'
Never since, as a child, he had said his prayers at his mother's knee, had Lewis Gordon so knelt to man or woman. And something of the child's unquestioning belief in an unselfish love came back to him, joined to a perfect passion of the man's clear-sighted remorse and regret for long years of past disbelief.
'Don't,' she said, gently bending over him; 'please don't. There is nothing for you to be sorry about--indeed, there isn't.'
Nothing to be sorry about! Once more he echoed this girl's words to himself with that strange thrill, as, recovering his self-command, he stood straight and stiff beside her, conscious only of one vehement desire to care for and to protect her.
'What is it you want me to do?' he said at last unsteadily. 'Tell me, and I'll do it.'
Then, woman-like, she began to cry; it is a way the good ones have when they succeed in imposing their own will on those they love.
'I don't think I want you to do anything--particular,' she answered, trying to conceal her tears. 'I don't know; besides, I would much rather you did it your own way.'