He had it, then, between the eyes. His boyish stumbling ceased. He caught her hands in his.
"Fred," he began—a door banged in the kitchen and they both started, "Fred," he said, again—his throat was dry, and he stopped to swallow. Instinctively she was drawing away from him; the smiling offer was still in her eyes, but a frightened look lay behind it. He did not try to hold the withdrawing hands.
"Fred, I care for you so much—" He was white with pain. Frederica was silent. "I care for you so terribly, I—I have to be—straight. I never thought—" She made a gesture, and he stopped.
"It's all right. I understand. You needn't go on."
"Fred! Look here—I care for you more than I can tell you. You are—you are simply stunning; but—"
She laughed: "Cut it out, Howard; cut it out! I understand."
"You don't!" he said, greatly agitated; "you can't understand how—how I appreciate—I shall never forget—"
She motioned him back to his chair, and dropped into her own. "You needn't worry about me. I've made a mistake, that's all. Many a man has done the same thing and lived through it. I assure you I sha'n't pine!"
She was very pale, but smiling finely. He sat down. His confusion was agonizing. He was trying to think how he could tell her what she meant to him; how he respected, admired—yes, loved her! Only not—not just in the way she meant. He tried to say this, then stopped, realizing, dazed as he was, that his explanations only made things worse.
"I am not worthy of the friendship of a woman as noble as you are!"