She did not look up, but she shook her head.
“No, Crawford,” she said. “I'm afraid not. Not enough.”
She heard him catch his breath, and she longed—Oh, how she longed!—to throw her arms about him, tell him that it was all a lie, that she did love him. But she forced herself not to think of her own love, only of those whom she loved and what disgrace and shame and misery would come upon them if she yielded.
“Not enough?” she heard him repeat slowly. “You—you don't love me? Oh, Mary!”
She shook her head.
“I am sorry, Crawford,” she said. “I can't tell you how sorry. Please—please don't think hardly of me, not too hardly. I wish—I wish it were different.”
Neither spoke for a moment. Then he said:
“I'm afraid I don't understand. Is there someone else?”
“Oh, no, no! There isn't anyone.”
“Then—But you told me—You have let me think—”