“Unlike me? Yes, you have nearly driven me mad.”
“No, no. No, no,” she said tenderly. “Be calm. Indeed and indeed, I have felt as warm and affectionate to you of late as a sister could feel for a brother. I have felt so pleased to see how you were winning your way here amongst the people; and when I have heard a light or contemptuous utterance about you, it has made me angry and ready to speak in your defence.”
“Yes, I know,” he cried; “and it is this that taught me that you must care for me—must love me.”
“Cannot a woman esteem and be attached to a youth without loving him?”
“Youth! There! You treat me as if I were a boy,” he cried angrily. “Can I help seeming so young?”
“No,” she said, taking his hand, “But you are in heart and ways very, very young, Christie Bayle. Am I to tell you again that it was this brought about our intimacy, for I found you so fresh in your young manliness, so different to the gentlemen I have been accustomed to? Come: forget all this. Let us be friends.”
“Friends? No, it is impossible,” he cried bitterly. “I know I am boyish and weak, and that is why you hold me in such contempt.”
“Contempt? Oh, no!”
“But, some day,” he pleaded, “I’ll wait—any time—”
“No, no, no,” she said flushing, “it is impossible.”