But she shook her head. "I cannot tell you how distressed I am, but I do not love you."
He was silent, as though trying to understand.
"Won't you try and forget it? Won't you forgive me, and let us be friends?" she said.
"You really mean it? You really mean to make me wretched? Forget it? I wish to Heaven I could!"
Lois did not speak. There seemed to be nothing to say.
"You have let me think you cared," he went on, "and I have built on it; I have staked all my happiness on it; I am a ruined man if you don't love me. And you coolly tell me you do not care for me! Can't you try to? I'll make you so happy, if you will only make me happy, Lois."
"Please—please," she protested, "do not say anything more; it never can be,—indeed, it cannot!"
Dick's voice had been tender a moment before, but it was hard now. "Well," he said, "you have amused yourself all summer, I suppose. You made me think you loved me, and everybody else thought so, too."
The hint of blame kept Lois from feeling the sting of conscience. She flung her head back, and looked at him with a flash of indignation in her eyes. "Do you think it's manly to blame me? You had better blame yourself that you couldn't win my love!"
"Do you expect a man to choose his words when you give him his death-blow?" he said; and then, "Oh, Miss Lois, if I wait, can't you learn to care for me? I'll wait,—a year, if you say there's any hope. Or do you love anybody else? Is that the reason?"