"The world, Cornelius! Why what can it say?"
"Accuse me of selfishness. But I say it again: I care not."
I laughed. He gave me a look of pain.
"Do not laugh so," he said; "do not. I never yet heard that light, girlish laugh of yours, but it presaged some new irritating torment. What are you going to say now?"
I saw his temper was chafed. I answered, soothingly:
"What can I say, Cornelius, save that only your sensitive conscience could imagine the accusation of selfishness? Those who think you selfish must be crazed. Why here am I to keep, a girl of seventeen, with little or no money, and you not a rich man yet! Why any other man would think me a bore—a burden—and be glad enough to get rid of me. But you are so disinterested, so generous, that you cannot see that."
I felt more than I saw the change which these words wrought on Cornelius. It was not that his look turned away; it was not that the arm which encircled me, released its hold; but it was as if a cold shadow suddenly stepped in between us: the life and warmth departed from his clasp; the light and meaning of his look retreated inwardly, to depths where mine could not follow.
"You think me disinterested and generous," he said at length. "Do you mean that I do not care about you?"
"No, Cornelius, I know better; but your affection is disinterested. Oh! my friend, my more than father, though you could not be my father, how often have I felt that other girls might well be jealous of me, if they but knew, as I know, what it is to have a friend, who is not bound to you by the ties of blood, yet in whom you can trust utterly; on whom you can rely without fear—as I do with you, Cornelius."
"Do not," he replied, half pushing me away, and averting his face, "do not, Daisy. I dare not trust myself more than I would trust any other man; and, if I were you, I would not trust the man who could break his word—even for my sake."