‘Did your father say anything to you this morning about me?’ he asked.
‘No,’ whispered Nita. ‘Why–what–he has not told you to go away–oh, he has not told you that?’
‘No. We were talking about you last night, Nita, and he told me this, that if you would marry me, I might stay; but if not, then I was to go. What do you say? May I stay? Will you let me try to make you happy, or must I go?’
Nita was nerveless, cold, and trembling–perhaps never in her life had she felt so unhappy as in this moment–which should have been the one of supreme delight–when the man she loved with all her soul asked her to be his wife.
‘Jerome–I–do you mean that you wish this?’ she asked, desperately plunging into the question.
‘I mean that I wish it more than anything in the world; and listen, Nita–I would not conceal this from you–that I have loved, and loved deeply, before ever I knew you: but that is all over, gone, done with, finished! I cannot offer you all the passion of a first strong love, but I can offer you my life’s devotion, if you will be so good, so wonderfully good, as to take it.’
He saw the blank shade that came over her face: he believed that she was going to summon up her strength of will to refuse him. If she did, what was left to him–what in this world to make life worth an hour’s living?
‘Nita!’ he pleaded, in dire and dreadful earnest; ‘for God’s sake think before you speak! Do not cast me away! Try to bear with me–or–or–I shall be the most miserable wretch that ever lived!’
There was passion–there was even anguish in his tone–emotions which Nita read there, and which overpowered her. All her love, all her self-abnegation rushed out to meet him:
‘Oh, Jerome, if you care for my love–if it will give you one hour’s comfort–it is yours, it is yours! And my whole life with it–for I love you better than you can ever know.’