“Telling you I love you,” he whispered, in spite of himself, for the time had come, “Claude, dearest, better than my life.”
“No, no; you must not tell me that,” she said, half tearfully, for the declaration seemed to give her pain.
“I must. The words have come at last.”
“And you have lost your fish,” cried Claude for the line had suddenly become slack.
“But have I won you?”
“No, no. And pray let me go now.”
“No?”
There was so much anguish in the tone in which that one little word was spoken, that it went right to Claude’s heart, and as if involuntarily, she added quickly,—
“I don’t know.”
“Claude, dearest,” he whispered, and his voice trembled as the words were breathed in her ear, “for pity’s sake don’t trifle with me.”