Tim lifted his head, and she saw that somehow, in the last few minutes, he had grown suddenly older. His gay, smiling mouth had set itself sternly; the beautiful boyish face had become a man's.
“I thought so, too,” he said gently. “But I know now that what I feel for you isn't friendship. It's”—with a short, grim laugh—“something much more than that. Tell me, Sara—will there ever be any chance for me?”
She hesitated. She was so genuinely fond of him that she hated to give him pain. Looking at him, standing before her in his splendid young manhood, she wondered irritably why she didn't love him. He was pre-eminently loveable.
He caught eagerly at her hesitation.
“Don't answer me now!” he said swiftly. “I'll wait—give me a chance. I can't take no . . . I won't take it!” he went on masterfully. “I love you!” Impetuously he slipped his strong young arms about her and kissed her on the mouth.
The previous moment she had been all softness and regret, but now, at the sudden passion in his voice, something within her recoiled violently, repudiating the claim his love had made upon her.
Sara was the last woman in the world to be taken by storm. She was too individual, her sense of personal independence too strongly developed, for her ever to be swept off her feet by a passion to which her own heart offered no response. Instead, it roused her to a definite consciousness of opposition, and she drew herself away from Tim's eager arms with a decision there was no mistaking.
“I'm sorry, Tim,” she said quietly. “But it's no good pretending I'm in love with you. I'm not.”
He looked at her with moody, dissatisfied eyes.
“I've spoken too soon,” he said. “I should have waited. Only I was afraid.”