“I—I think—I believe I do care for you,” she faltered, as she looked up at him in a piteous, pleading way.
“Heaven bless you, sweet!” he cried. “Then this very day I will see them. They are women, and will listen to reason. I will plead to them, and you shall help me.”
“Oh, no, no, no!” cried Clotilde in horrified tones. “That would be to separate us for ever, and—and—and,” she sobbed, “I could not bear that.”
“But surely”—he began.
“Oh, you do not know my aunts!” she said excitedly. “It would only be to force me into that dreadful man’s arms. We must not let them know. It would be too dreadful.”
“But, my darling, I think I could show them—”
“No, no! Don’t show them—don’t try to show them, if you love me!”
“If I love you!” he said reproachfully.
“Then pray—pray keep it secret,” she said imploringly, “for the present.”
“But I must see you—I must talk to you.”