“Don’t be cruel to me, Lisbeth!” he pleaded, when she tried to draw it away; and she was forced to let it remain. “Don’t be cruel to me,” he said, and still held this hand, when she released herself at last, and stood up, miserable and shame-faced, yet far less miserable than she had been.
“It—it is you who are cruel!” she faltered. “What am I to say to you! You have left me nothing to say.”
She hung back, half afraid of his vehemence. He had begun with bitter ravings, and in five minutes had ended by crushing her in his arms. It was her punishment that she should be so humbled and brought down.
“Say nothing,” he cried. “Let me say all. I love you. It is Fate.”
She could not help seeing the fantastic side of this, and she smiled, a little, daring smile, though she hung her head.
“Are you—proposing to me?” she ventured, hoping to retrieve herself.
He could not stand that, but she would not let him burst out again, and leave her no chance to assert her privilege to struggle at retaining the upper hand.
“You told me that you came in spite of yourself, because you could not stay away. Was it true?” she asked.
“Yes.”
She could not help feeling a glow of triumph, and it shone in her eyes.