He hardly understood her.
“Can’t do what?”
“I can’t marry you. It’s simply impossible. It wouldn’t be fair to you. I am ashamed and humiliated beyond words. Don’t torture me by asking questions. You are too generous for that. I wanted to love you, but it’s not in me. It never will be in me. I ought to have obeyed my instinct in the garden. I have hurt you horribly; I shall make mother miserable; I shall be wretched myself; but I can’t marry you.”
He walked to the window. She was sorely tempted to rush from the room, but strength came back to her. She perceived that the pearls were still in her hand.
“And those pearls of dew she wears
Prove to be presaging tears.”
Milton’s lines came into her mind, as she placed the string upon her mother’s desk. But no tears came into her eyes. She waited for Wilverley to turn and speak. What would he say? Would he attempt protest, argument, reproach . . .?
He came back to her.
“I am sorry,” he said kindly. “If you feel that way, I—I admire your pluck. Of course, I was not prepared. I blame myself. I suppose I ought to have taken your first ‘no’ as final. I understand anyway that this last ‘no’ is final. Now . . . What are you going to say to Lady Selina?”
“Just what I have said to you.”