"It must have cost a fortune, Rodrigo—I can't accept it," she replied in a low voice.
He looked at her blankly. "But why not? What's wrong, Mary?"
"I hope you won't think me ungrateful. But circumstances have developed—that make it necessary for me to leave my position here at the end of the week—or at least as soon you can get someone to replace me."
"Nonsense," he cried impulsively. "I know—someone has been talking to you. But I'm not going to let you go." He suddenly felt happiness sweeping away from him, darkness closing in, all that he held dear escaping him. He clutched at her hand and cried quickly, pleadingly, "Mary! You can't! I need you—I love you! I want you to be my wife." She looked at him, startled, frightened, afraid to trust herself to speak. Emotion surged from him, "Oh, haven't you seen how much I cared?" Then, a light and a terrible forecast of disaster dawning, "Have you been afraid of this? Is that why you're leaving?"
"Please, Rodrigo," she almost whispered. "I'm grateful—and honored—but——"
"Don't say that yet, Mary. I've so much to tell you. So much that you must believe."
She looked at him now with clear, resigned eyes. She said quietly, "Is there any use of it?"
"Not if you—couldn't love me. If you don't believe in my love, or that I could make you happy."
She replied slowly, "How I wish I could say to you, or put clearly to myself, all that is in my mind. I wish I dared listen to you. But it will be easier for both of us—the less there is to remember. Please let me go."
Despair crept into his voice as he answered her, "Perhaps you have condemned me already. Is that what you mean?"