'Allow me to retain it, even for a time—though would that I might wear it in my grave—for a time, in memory of the darling hopes I have dared to cherish,' he whispered, in a manner there could be no mistaking now.
'Spare me this melodramatic sort of thing, Mr. Holcroft,' said Olive, growing rather pale; 'I cannot—must not listen to you.'
'Why—what do you mean?'
'That there are obstacles between us, even were there not the want of liking,' she replied, decidedly, but with an agitated voice.
'Obstacles?' he repeated, inquiringly, sadly, and certainly with an air of disappointment; 'am I now to understand that you are engaged to the Master of Aberfeldie, as these absurd Scots people call him?'
Olive bit her ruddy nether lip at this home question; but made no reply.
'What enigma is this? You either are or you are not. If not, why may not I——'
'I dare not listen to this style of conversation,' interrupted Olive, with positive annoyance; 'and you have no right to force it upon me.'
'After all that has passed?' said he, reproachfully, and rather feeling as if his hopes were melting into air.
'I do not understand you,' replied Olive, whose conscience certainly did reproach her.