"Good heaven, do not believe that!" he cried,
"What am I to believe?"—tapping the ground with her boot so that the spur jingled.
A pause.
"Mr. Warburton, do you know what a woman loves in a man? I will tell you the secret. She loves courage, constancy, and honor, purpose that surmounts obstacles; she loves pursuit; she loves the hour of surrender. Every woman builds a castle of romance and waits for Prince Charming to enter, and once he does, there must be a game of hide and seek. Perhaps I have built my castle of romance, too. I wait for Prince Charming, and—a man comes, dressed as a groom. There has been a game of hide and seek, but somehow he has tripped. Will you not ask me if I love you?"
"No, no! I understand. I do not want your gratitude. You are meeting generosity with generosity. I do not want your gratitude."—brokenly. "I want your love, every thought of your mind, every beat of your heart. Can you give me these, honestly?"
She drew off a glove. Her hand became lost in her bosom. When she drew it forth she extended it, palm upward. Upon it lay a faded, withered rose. Once more she turned her face away.
He was at her side, and the hand and rose were crushed between his two hands.
"Can you give what I ask? Your love, your thoughts, your heart-beats?"
It was her turn to remain dumb.
"Can you?" He drew her toward him perhaps roughly, being unconscious of his strength and the nervous energy which the sight of the rose had called into being.