"If you don't hate me for it now, I'm willing to take the risk," he said at length. "It will be my fault if you hate me in the future; I'll try not to deserve it."
He fancied that she was yielding, but she roused herself with an effort.
"No. Love on one side may go a long way, if it is strong enough—but it must be strong to overcome the many clashes of thought and will. Yours"—she looked at him steadily—"would not stand the strain."
Vane started.
"You are the only woman I ever wished to marry," he declared vehemently.
He paused and spread out his hands.
"What can I say to convince you?"
"I'm afraid it's impossible. If you had wanted me greatly, you would have pressed the claim you had in saving Mopsy, and I should have forgiven you that; you would have urged any and every claim. As it is, I suppose I am pretty"—her lips curled scornfully—"and you find that some of your ideas and mine agree. It isn't half enough! Shall I tell you that you are scarcely moved as yet?"
It flashed upon Vane that he was confronted with the reality. Her beauty had appealed to him, and her other qualities—her reserved graciousness with its tinge of dignity, her insight and her comprehension—had also had their effect; but they had only awakened admiration and respect. He desired her as one desires an object for its rarity and preciousness; but this, as she had told him, was not enough. Behind her physical and mental attributes, and half revealed by them, there was something deeper: the real personality of the girl. It was elusive, mystic, with a spark of immaterial radiance which might brighten human love with its transcendent glow; but, as he dimly realized, if he won her by force, it might recede and vanish altogether. He could not, with strong ardor, compel its clearer manifestation.
"I think I am moved as much as it is possible for me to be."