“What do I mean, Salis?” cried the doctor passionately; “why, that I love Leo dearly, and I ask you to let me approach her, and beg her to be my wife.”
The curate sank into the nearest chair, and sat gazing up at his friend.
“Why, you don’t seem—I had hoped—Hartley, old fellow, don’t look at me like that.”
“I am very sorry.”
“No, no; don’t speak in that way—so cold and bitter.”
“Have you spoken to Leo—of your love?”
“Not a word. On my honour.”
A sigh escaped Mary.
“You need not say your honour, Horace, old fellow,” said the curate sadly. “I did once hope this, but that time has gone by, and I can only say again I am very sorry.”
“But why?—why?”