She lay back against the darkness of the cushions, pale and startled.
"Are you serious?" she said. "You—want to marry me? do you mean it?"
"I mean it. I don't seem able to tell you how much I mean it. Can you like me well enough to be my wife?"
"I do like you," she stammered; "but I hadn't an idea.... I never thought you thought——Oh, I'm sorry!"
"Why? Why can't you say 'yes'?"
"To marry you?"
"I'll be very gentle to you," he said shakily. "I—for God's sake, don't judge my love for you by the way I put it! I haven't had much practice in love-making; it's a pity, perhaps. There's a word that says it all—I 'worship' you. My darling, what have you to look forward to? You've seen, you've tried, you know what an uphill life it will be. It's not as if I begged you to waive your hopes while you had encouragement to hope—you've made the attempt, and you know the difficulties now. Come to me instead. You shall live where you like—you can choose your own quarter. You can have everything you care for—books, pictures, theatres too. Oh, my sweet, come to me, and I'll fulfil every wish! Will you, Mamie?"
"I can't," she said tremulously, "it wouldn't be fair." Her eyes shone at him, and she leant forward with parted lips. "I like you, I like you very much, but I don't—I'm not—— I've never been in love with anyone."
"I'll be grateful for small mercies," said Heriot, with an unhappy laugh.
"And I could not do what you ask. If I fail, I fail; but I must persevere. I can't accept failure voluntarily—I can't stretch out my arms to it. I should despise myself if I gave in to-day. Even you——"