"Stop!" she said, and her voice though faint was clear and steady—"Do you think—can you imagine that I am of so low and common a nature as to marry any man, after—" She paused, struggling with herself.
"After what?" he queried, smilingly.
She shuddered, as with keenest cold.
"After your kisses!" she answered—"After your embraces which have held me away from everything save you!—After your caresses—oh God!—after all this,—do you think I would shame my body and perjure my soul by giving myself to another man?"
He almost laughed at her saintly idea of a lover's chastity.
"Every woman would!" he declared—"And I'm sure every woman does!"
She looked straight before her into vacancy.
"I am not 'every woman,'" she said, slowly—"I am only one unhappy girl!"
He was still dabbing colour on his canvas, but now threw down his brush and came to her.
"Dear child, why be tragic?" he said—"Life is such a pleasant thing and holds so much for both of us! I shall always love you—if you're good!" and he laughed, pleasantly—"and you can always love ME—if you like! But I cannot marry you—I have never thought of such a thing! Marriage would not suit me at all. I know, of course, what YOU would like. You would like a grand wedding with lots of millinery and presents, and then a honeymoon at your old Briar Farm—in fact, I daresay you'd like to buy Briar Farm and imprison me there for life, along with the dust and ashes of my ancestor's long-lost brother—but I shouldn't like it! No, child!—not even you, attractive as you are, could turn me into a Farmer Jocelyn!"