I looked up at him. His good, homely face was close to mine, and in his eyes was an unmistakable look of love and tenderness.
I opened my mouth to say yes.
And then there came over me in one rush the most awful realization of the sacrilege I was going to commit.
I forgot everything except that I loved Jack Willoughby, and that I could never, never marry anybody in the world except him.
Then I pulled my hands away and burst into hysterical, undignified tears.
"I beg your pardon," said Mr. Sinclair. "I did not mean to startle you. Have I been too abrupt? Surely you must have known—you must have expected—"
"Yes—yes—I knew," I cried miserably, "and I intended right up to this very minute to marry you. I'm so sorry—but I can't—I can't."
"I don't understand," he said in a bewildered tone. "If you expected it, then why—why—don't you care for me?"
"No, that's just it," I sobbed. "I don't love you at all—and I do love somebody else. But he is poor, and I hate poverty. So I refused him, and I meant to marry you just because you are rich."
Such a pained look came over his face. "I did not think this of you," he said in a low tone.