“No.”
The answer came coldly, and with evident resentment at the query. Thord hesitated a minute or two, looking at her yearningly; then he suddenly laid his hand on her arm.
“Lotys!” he said in a half-whisper; “If you would only love me! If you would be my wife!”
She raised her dark-blue pensive eyes.
“My poor Sergius! With all your triumphs, do you still hanker for a wayside weed? Alas!—the weed has tough roots that cannot be pulled up to please you! I would make you happy if I could, dear friend!—but in the way you ask, I cannot!”
His heart beat thickly.
“Why?”
“Why? Ask why the rain will not melt marble into snow! I love you, Sergius—but not with such love as you demand. And I would not be your wife for all the world!”
He restrained himself with difficulty.
“Again—why?”