“But I am quite in earnest, Alice; it is only my way, you know.”
“I suppose you are in earnest, Fred, and I can assure you that I am at least equally so.”
Fred Bingham paused for a moment, and then said, much more earnestly than he had spoken before,—
“I am afraid, Alice, that I am not going the right way about this. I love you very much, and have done so for years. You must have seen it. I know that usually men put all this in a sentimental sort of way, but that is quite out of my line. But I am not the less in earnest. I do love you very much, Alice. I always thought you knew it.”
“I will be as frank with you, Fred, as you are with me. I have had an idea for some time past that you intended some day or other to make me an offer. Had you made love to me in the usual sort of way I should assuredly at once have shown you by my manner that the thing was out of the question. But you have never done so. You have been very often here. You have been very chatty and amusing. I could not show you that I did not wish you to come so often. I was obliged to wait. Had I believed, or did I now believe that you loved me, I should feel very great pain in refusing you; but, although I did, and do believe that you wish to marry me, I do not believe that you have the slightest love for me in the real meaning of the word any more than I have for you.”
Fred coloured up deeply now, and looked mortified and angry.
“But I tell you I do love you, Alice, and I suppose I know my own heart.”
A little scornful smile crossed Alice's face.