“Perhaps,” he forced himself to say, “they will not hate him, when they know how you— Lydia, you are wonderful!”
She looked up startled and put out her hand as if to prevent him from speaking further.
But the words came in a torrent now:
“How you must despise me! I despise myself. I am not worthy, Lydia; but if you can care—”
“Stop!” she said softly, as if she would lay the compelling finger of silence upon his lips. “I told you I was not like other women. Can’t you see—?”
“You must marry me,” he urged, in a veritable passion of self-giving. “I want to help you! You will let me, Lydia?”
She shook her head.
“You could not help me; I am better alone.”
She looked at him, the glimmer of a smile dawning in her eyes.
“You do not love me,” she said; “nor I you. You are my friend. You will remain my friend, I hope?”