His hands on the arms of the wicker chair clenched. He half rose, thought better of it, and sank back.
"I was saying that it might have been better for you," he said, breathing quickly. "In all probability you would have accepted him, had I not been here to—blunder into the affair."
"He mightn't have asked me, if you hadn't been here to blunder into the affair," said I, composedly. "Let us drop the subject, please. I shall never marry The Author." It gave me a sense of relief and freedom to hear myself say that. "I can't marry The Author."
He went pale. "Sophy—you can't marry me, either," he said.
"Of course not." I wondered at myself for being so calm and collected. "I knew that all along. You care for another woman. You told me so, you know."
"I told you no such thing," he said. "I told you I cared for a woman, but that there was another man. Now I've just been told she has no idea of accepting the other man. In spite of all he has to offer, she isn't going to marry him." His face was at once ecstatic and tortured. "Why won't you marry the other man, Sophy?"
"Because of a dream I dreamed, when I was sick," I said noncommittally.
"Ah! And did you dream that somebody called you—and held you—and wouldn't let you go?"
"I never told you!" I cried.
"No need, Sophy. It was to me you came back." Of a sudden his head drooped. "And now I can't marry you!"