"I shall never think that of you," he said painfully.
"Well, then, I did know you cared for me," she continued. "I was always ashamed of myself for knowing. It seemed conceited of me to imagine that a grown-up man should want such a child as I am—still, I couldn't help it. I felt it. It seems one does feel that sort of thing. It is like electricity in the air. Anyhow, it did not worry me very much. I made up my mind that one of these days I would marry you. It seemed so probable and natural that I should. We had known each other since I was a baby and you a school-boy; our families were connected; we lived in the same neighbourhood; we saw each other at regular intervals; we never quarrelled—or hardly ever; we knew each other's faults better than most people do who marry. Everything seemed to point in the same direction. But I was such a school-girl. I felt that there was heaps of time for me to grow to love you—or perhaps find out that I loved you already. You see, I wasn't sure. I liked to be with you; but then, I like to be with any one who is jolly and amusing, so that wasn't a sure test. Yesterday I knew that there was no time left me. I guessed that I should have to decide between you and Karlsburg. It sounds horrid, but it is the truth. And I could not decide—I simply could not. Then I thought—perhaps if you asked me, perhaps if you told me about your love, it would awaken some sort of an answer in me—I should feel some sort of signal such as I should imagine a woman would feel if the being with whom she is destined to spend her life, and perhaps more, stood at her side and held her hand. So I came out here, so that you would ask me to be your wife. Are you angry?"
He shook his head, frowning straight before him.
"No."
"It may sound heartless," she went on; "I did not mean it to be. I thought it would be better if everything was spoken out clearly between us. I knew you loved me, and I cared for you—I cared for you enough to be glad if I found I loved you. For my own sake I should have been glad. I know my life would be safe in your hands—that you are all an English gentleman need be, but——"
"Now comes the 'but,' he said, with bitterness.
"It is no good," she said. "I can't pretend, can I? When you took my hand, when you spoke, I felt nothing—absolutely nothing, or, perhaps, only a little more critical than usual. I noticed, for instance, that you stoop. It had never struck me before. I tell you that because it shows you just how I feel."
"Thank you," he said.
She put her hand on his shoulder.
"Don't be angry," she pleaded. "I do care for you."