"Afraid—of me?"
"No—that is, not of you personally—but of marriage itself. I can't bear yet—the thought of facing—passion."
The hand that had been stroking her hair dropped suddenly, and she felt him draw away from her, with something almost like a groan, and put her arms around his neck, clinging to him with all her strength.
"Don't—I love you—and love you—and love you—oh, can't I make you see? Are you very angry with me, Austin?"
"No, darling, I'm not angry at all. How could I be? But I'm just beginning to realize—though I thought I knew before—what a perfect hell you've been through—and wondering if I can ever make it up to you."
"Then this doesn't seem to you dreadful—to have me ask for this?"
"Not half so dreadful as it would to have you look at me as you did on
Christmas night."
He began stroking her hair again, speaking reassuringly, his voice full of sympathy.
"Don't cry, dearest—it's all right. There's nothing to worry over. It's right that you should have your way about this—it's my way, too, as long as you feel like this. I hope you won't too long—for—I love you, and want you, and—and need you so much—and—I've waited a year for you already. But I promise never to force—or even urge—you in any way, if you'll promise me that when you are ready—you'll tell me."
"I will," she sobbed, with her head hidden on his shoulder.