“Is it anything in any way connected with your sister, Miss Arden?”
“It may be, possibly.”
“Say what you think, Arden, I beseech you.”
“Well, I think, perhaps, you admire her.”
“Do I? Do I? Is that all? Would to God I could say that is all! Admiration, what is it?—Nothing. Love?—Nothing. Mine is adoration and utter madness. I have told my secret. What do you say? Do you hate me for it?”
“Hate you, my dear fellow! Why on earth should I hate you? On the contrary, I ought, I think, to like you better. I'm only a little surprised that your feelings should so much exceed anything I could have supposed.”
“Yesterday, Arden, you spoke as if you liked me. As we drove into that place, I fancied you half understood me; and cheered by what you then said, I have spoken that which might have died with me, but for that.”
“Well, what's the matter? My dear Longcluse, you talk as if I had shown signs of wavering friendship. Have I? Quite the contrary.”
“Quite the contrary, that is true,” said Longcluse eagerly. “Yes, you should like me better for it—that is true also. Yours is no wavering friendship, I'm sure of it. Let us shake hands upon it. A treaty, Arden, a treaty!”
With a fierce smile upon his pale face, and a sudden fire in his eyes, he extended his hand energetically, and took that of Arden, who answered the invitation with a look in which gleamed faintly something of amusement.