“It is no insult for a man to offer the woman he loves his name, and the devotion of his life,” he said proudly. “Am I such a frivolous boy that you speak to me as you do, treating me as if it were some pitiful declaration from one who has uttered the same words to a dozen women? I am a student; my life has been devoted to my profession, and I swear to you that I never gave more than a passing thought to love until you awoke the passion in my breast—and for what? To tell me, when the truth will out, that I insult you! I—I who would die to save you pain—who would suffer anything for your sake—who would make it the one aim of my life to bring happiness to yours. And you tell me I insult you!”
“Yes; it is an insult to take advantage of my position here, sir, at such a time as this. You forget yourself. I am the hospital nurse attending your father. You are the surgeon whose duty is, not only to your patient, but also to me.”
“It is no insult,” he said warmly. “It is the honest outspoken word of the man who asks you to be his wife.”
“Mr Elthorne,” she said coldly, “it is impossible.”
“Why? Can you not give me some hope? I will wait patiently, as Jacob waited for Rachel.”
“I tell you, sir, it is impossible, and you force me to quit this house at once.”
“No, no; for pity’s sake don’t say that,” he cried, catching her hand, but she drew it away, and stood back with her eyes flashing.
“How dare you!” she cried angrily. “You force me to speak, sir. Once more I tell you it is an infamy—an insult.”
“Infamy! Insult!” he said bitterly.
“Yes. Do you suppose I am ignorant of your position here? You ask me to be your wife when in a few more hours the lady to whom you are betrothed will be staying in the house.”