"That cordial drop of friendship is a poison, sweet, subtle, and deadly," he answered mournfully.
Florence drew back, startled. "Harold, you forget the past," she said anxiously.
"I wish I could," he replied sadly. "I wish you were not my friend."
"Why?" she asked, frightened, and almost afraid to hear the reply.
"Because I love you, Florence," he slowly and earnestly replied. "If you were not my dearest friend you might love me, too."
She looked wonderingly into his face, almost expecting to read there that his words were in jest. She was so startled that the full meaning of what he said did not, at first, appear to her, but slowly she realized that this friendship that had lasted so long and had been so sweet must end. She covered her face with her hands as though hoping to hide this thought from her mind. "Why did you say it? Why did you say it?" she moaned. "It was so sweet before."
"It was in my heart, dearest; it has been there a very long time. I have tried to keep it friendship, but I couldn't." Harold slowly rose and stood beside her. "Forgive me," he continued. "I couldn't help it, Florence; I couldn't."
She took his hand; it was cold. "Forgive you," she said, "I have nothing to forgive."
His hand tightened about hers. "I love you, Florence," he said. "Will you be my wife?"
She raised her eyes and looked full into his face. "Would you marry your best friend?" she asked, her voice trembling slightly.