"He has been very fond of me for a long time," she said, tremulously. "He says that he loves me. He came to ask me to be his wife. I am very sorry for him."
"Why?" he asked again, unsteadily.
"I was obliged to make him unhappy," she answered. "I do not love him."
"Why?" he repeated yet again; but his voice had sunk into a whisper.
"Because," she said, trembling all over now—"because I cannot."
He could not utter another word. There was such danger for him, and his perilled honor, in her simple tremor and sadness, that he was forced to be silent.
It was not safe to follow M. Maurien at least. But, as might be anticipated, their conversation flagged in no slight degree. The hearts of both were so full of one subject that it would have been hard to force them to another. Theo, upon her low sultane, sat mute with drooped eyes, becoming more silent every moment. Oglethorpe, in regarding her beautiful downcast face, forgot himself also. It was almost half an hour before he remembered he had not made the visit without an object. He had something to say to her—something he had once said to her before. He was going away again, and had come to tell her so. But he recollected himself at last.
"I must not forget that I had a purpose in coming here to-night," he said.
"A purpose?" she repeated, after him.
"Yes," he answered. "I found last night, on returning to my hotel, that there was a letter awaiting me from London—from my employers, in fact. I must leave Paris to-morrow morning."