I had to look her in the eyes, since nothing else would do her; and, as I did so, all the might of manhood in me rose up in hot revolt against the lie I would have told her. That unfaltering, impelling gaze of hers drew the truth from my lips in spite of myself.
"No, I don't wish you to marry Frank Douglas, a thousand times no!" I said passionately. "I don't wish you to marry any man on earth but myself. I love you—I love you, Betty. You are dearer to me than life—dearer to me than my own happiness. It was your happiness I thought of—and so I asked you to marry Frank because I believed he would make you a happy woman. That is all!"
Betty's defiance went from her like a flame blown out. She turned away and drooped her proud head.
"It could not have made me a happy woman to marry one man, loving another," she said, in a whisper.
I got up and went over to her.
"Betty, whom do you love?" I asked, also in a whisper.
"You," she murmured meekly—oh, so meekly, my proud little girl!
"Betty," I said brokenly, "I'm old—too old for you—I'm more than twenty years your senior—I'm—"
"Oh!" Betty wheeled around on me and stamped her foot. "Don't mention your age to me again. I don't care if you're as old as Methuselah. But I'm not going to coax you to marry me, sir! If you won't, I'll never marry anybody—I'll live and die an old maid. You can please yourself, of course!"
She turned away, half-laughing, half-crying; but I caught her in my arms and crushed her sweet lips against mine.