“I do mean it. I told him that I loved you.”
I don't know what more she would have said. I did not wait to hear. She was in my arms at last and all England was whirling about me like a top.
“But you can't!” I found myself saying over and over. I must have said other things before, but I don't remember them. “You can't! it is impossible. You! marry an old fossil like me! Oh, Frances, are you sure? Are you sure?”
“Yes, Kent,” softly, “I am sure.”
“But you can't love me. You are sure that your—You have no reason to be grateful to me, but you have said you were, you know. You are sure you are not doing this because—”
“I am sure. It is not because I am grateful.”
“But, my dear—think! Think what it means, I am—”
“I know what you are,” tenderly. “No one knows as well. But, Kent—Kent, are YOU sure? It isn't pity for me?”
I think I convinced her that it was not pity. I know I tried. And I was still trying when the sound of steps and voices on the other side of the shrubbery caused us—or caused her; I doubt if I should have heard anything except her voice just then—to start and exclaim:
“Someone is coming! Don't, dear, don't! Someone is coming.”