“Claude! What are you saying?”
“That I have my poor father’s words still ringing in my ears. He forbade it, and I cannot go in opposition to his washes.”
“Claude!”
“I cannot help it. It is better that the words should be spoken now, and the pain be over. Chris, when we meet again it must be as friends.”
“No,” he cried passionately; “you must meet me as my promised wife.”
“It is impossible,” she said faintly, after a painful pause. “No, Chris, as my friend—brother, if you wish, but that is at an end.”
“But why—no, no; don’t answer me. You are ill and hysterical, dear. You think seriously of words that will grow fainter and of less import as the time goes on. There, come. Let us put all this aside now. I am content that we have met, and you know the truth—that I have spoken, and so plainly, once again.”
“No; you must hear me now,” she said with a sigh, that seemed to be torn from her breast.
“Well, then, speak,” he said, with a smile full of pity.
“Once more,” she said, after a pause; “you must never speak to me again as you have to-night.”