“You understand?” there was passionate eagerness in his glance; his love for her was sweeping away the obstacles from his mind, leaping up again to demand its right to exist.
“Yes,” Rose said, with white lips, “I understand, not fully—but—”
“And now?” he was strongly moved; not knowing whose hand had lifted the veil of her misunderstanding and far from divining the truth.
“And now?” the tears gathered in her eyes and fell unheeded; “I cannot but think of her love—her unhappiness!”
“And you still blame me?” Fox stood motionless, his face resuming its stern reserve.
Rose shook her head. “I—I cannot!” she murmured, remembering that confession, and the thought of it sealing her lips.
He started, the color rushing to his temples, the kindling passion of his glance transforming him. “Rose!”
She looked up through her tears, and as suddenly hid her face in her hands. “I am afraid!” she murmured brokenly, “out of—of all this sorrow can there be happiness?”
Fox sat down beside her and gently took her hand. “You mean you cannot trust me?” he asked soberly.
For a moment she did not answer. He looked down at her drooping profile, the lovely arch of her brow, the soft cheek and chin; her eyes no longer met his. “Or is it that you do not love me?” he said quietly.