She drew back.
“I—I can't tell you,” she faltered. “You mustn't ask me.”
“But I do ask. You must tell me, Frances—Frances, it isn't—it can't be that you love ME. Do you?”
She drew back still further. If there had been a way of escape I think she would have taken it. But there was none. The thick shrubbery was behind her and I was between her and the path. And I would not let her pass.
“Oh, Frances, do you?” I repeated. “I never meant to ask you. I never meant that you should know. I am so much older, and so—so unworthy—it has seemed so hopeless and ridiculous. But I love you, Frances, I have loved you from the very beginning, although at first I didn't realize it. I—If you do—if you can—I—I—”
I faltered, hesitated, and stopped. She did not answer for a moment, a long, long moment. Then:
“Mr. Knowles,” she said, “you surprise me. I didn't suspect—I didn't think—”
I sighed. I had had my answer. Of course it was idiotic. I should have known; I did know.
“I see,” I said. “I understand. Forgive me, please. I was a fool to even think of such a thing. I didn't think it. I didn't dare until—until just now. Then I was told—your cousin said—I might have known he didn't mean what he said. But he said it and—and—”
“What did he say? Mr. Cripps, do you mean? What did he say?”