“No, no,” she exclaimed; “it is impossible.”
“I have spoken hastily. I have taken you by surprise,” he cried. “Only tell me this: you do not hate me, Leo?”
“Hate you? Oh, no, Dr North,” she cried. “Have we not always been great friends? Have you not saved my life?”
“Let me be more than friend,” he exclaimed; and a curious look came into her eyes, as he went on pouring forth in almost incoherent terms his love for her, the intense longing she had inspired. He could not interpret it—that it was full of mockery and suppressed mirth, mingled with contempt.
“You do not speak,” he said, at last. “Give me some hope.”
“What shall I say?” she cried. “It is too much to ask of me. You want me to promise.”
“Yes,” he said; “and I will wait patiently for the fulfilment of that promise.”
“But I have thought so little of such a thing,” she said calmly. “You have taken me so by surprise. I cannot—oh, I cannot promise.”
“But I may hope?” he said.
“I cannot—I will not—promise,” she said firmly. “If I marry it must be some one who has distinguished himself, who has made himself a name among the great people of the world. I hate this humdrum life, and this dull existence in the country. The man I loved should be one of whom his fellow-men talked because he had become great and done something of which I could be proud. No, no, Dr North; you must not ask me to promise this.”