“A fancy! Have you no feeling for me deeper than you give to a mere friend?”
“Yes.”
“Thank God!” and the doctor raised his eyes, then let them fall upon her face with an adoring look.
“But I cannot make you understand, that I would spare you suffering later on. Let me tell you. Love, to me, means perfect trust. I could never stoop to find out if you ever deceived me. If I did, love would die out of me that instant, and then how dreary my life would be. I don’t want to be wretched through any mistaken fancy. When I surrender, it must bring me what I long for—Contentment.”
“Come to me, Kate, and trust me! I am not here without being certain that our lives can be made of use and joy to each other, for I love you. I love you. I have been smothering my feelings so long, that it is now a relief to tell you of it,” and the doctor took one of her hands in his, and held it firmly.
“Tell me, Kate, is marriage distasteful to you?”
“Not my ideal of the true married state. When I look at my married friends, and see among them so many lovely women wretched, and unable to solve the problem of happiness, I pray that my life may escape like miserable failure.”