"Mrs. Richie, isn't it possible for you to care, just a little, and marry me?"
"No, Sam: indeed it isn't. Please don't think of it any more."
"Is it because you love him, still?"
"Love—him?" she breathed.
"He is dead," Sam said; "and I thought from something you once said, that you didn't really love him. But if you do—"
"My—husband, you mean? No! I don't. I never did. That's not the reason; oh, why did I come here?" she said in a distressed whisper.
At that he lifted his head. "Don't be unhappy. It doesn't matter about me." His eyes glittered. "'All is dross that is not Helena'! I shall love you as long as I live, even if you don't marry me. Perhaps—perhaps I wouldn't if you did!"
He did not notice her involuntary start of astonishment, he rose, and lifting his arms to the sky, stood motionless, rapt, as if in wordless appeal to heaven. Then his arms dropped. "No," he said, speaking with curious thoughtfulness: "no; you would be human if you could marry a fool like me." Helena made a protesting gesture, but he went on, quietly: "Oh, yes; I am a fool. I've been told so all my life; but I knew it, anyhow. Nobody need have told me. Of course you couldn't marry me! If you could, you would be like me. And I would not want that. No; you are God to me. Stay divine."
Helena put her hands over her ears.
"But please, can't you love me? We needn't be married, if you'd rather not. If you'll just love me a little?"