"Mr. Gibbon, I told you before. I have not changed."
"Nor I." His lips were lead-coloured and trembling; he was indeed trembling all over. He crossed his arms upon his chest to keep them still. "You are going to be my wife or no one's, Deleah," he said.
She got up nervously from her chair; she tried to speak lightly. "I am going to be no one's, Mr. Gibbon," she said. "As I walked along to-night I have been making up my mind what to do. I shall take a small house for us all, and try to keep a little school. You shall see how well I keep my pupils in order. And, now and then, you shall bring me a nosegay of flowers from your garden—"
"That won't suit me," he said. "I give you no more flowers unless you take them all. Will you take them? Answer."
"Oh, Mr. Gibbon!"
"'Oh, Mr. Gibbon!'" and he mimicked her. "Is that the way to speak to me?
After all the years of my worship, am I still 'Mr. Gibbon' to you?"
"I suppose so," was all poor Deleah could say.
He was standing with his back to the door. He turned swiftly and locked it, then holding the key in his shaking hand, crossed his arms again: "Now!" he said, facing her; "we come to realities now. No more 'Oh, Mr. Gibbon!' no more talk about flowers. Listen. I, Charles Gibbon, love you with a passionate and desperate love that is not going to be played with. Do you, Deleah Day, love me? Say it out, once for all; Gospel truth; as God is in heaven to hear it."
"I don't love you."
"Do you hate me?"