“Shall I guess?” Cecile asked, jestingly.
“Yes; what do you think it is?”
She glanced round the room until her eye rested on the little table covered with books.
“The loan of Emerson’s essays?” she hazarded.
But Quaerts shook his head and laughed:
“No, thank you,” he said. “I bought the volume long ago. No, no, it is a much greater favour than the loan of a book.”
“Be brave then and ask it,” Cecile went on, still jestingly.
“I dare not,” he said again. “I should not know how to put my request into words.”
She looked at him earnestly, into his eyes, which gazed steadily upon her; and then she said:
“I know what you want to ask me, but I will not say it. You must do that: so seek your words.”