Ellaline made a moue and shrank petulantly away from him. "I will not discuss our future state, unless you are prepared to do it seriously," she said.
"I am," he replied with sudden determination. "Let us enter it together. I am tired of the life I've been leading, and I love you."
"What!" she said in a little horrified whisper. "You want us to commit suicide together?"
"No, no—matrimony. I cannot do it alone—I have never had the courage to do it at all. With you at my side, I should go forward, facing the hereafter cheerfully, with faith and trust."
"I—I—am—afraid—I——" she stammered.
"Why should you be afraid?" he interrupted. "Have you no faith and trust in me?"
"Oh, yes," she said with a frank smile, "if I had not confidence in you, I should not be here with you."
"You angel!" he said, his eyes growing wet under her clear, limpid gaze. "But you love me a little, too?"
"I do not," she said, shaking her head demurely.
John Beveridge groaned. After so decisive an avowal from the essence of candor, what remained to be said? Nothing but to bid her and his hopes farewell—the latter at once, the former as soon as she was escorted back to Trepolpen. His affection had grown so ripe, he could not exchange it for the green fruit of friendship. And yet, was this to be the end of all that sweet idyllic interlude, a jarring note and then silence for evermore?