Her answer seemed an eternity in coming; for a plain 'yes' or 'no' were equally far from the truth. This boy of four-and-twenty gave her the restful sense of reliance and reserve force that she so missed in Maurice. But there was no art, no thrill in his love-making. It was direct and simple as himself. He never struck a chord of emotion and left it quivering, as Maurice had done many times.
"May I?"—he persisted gently.
"I still think you are . . . the best man I know," she admitted, without looking at him; and he flushed to the roots of his hair.
"But not the one you—care for most? It's that that matters, you know."
"Oh, I can't tell—truly I can't," she pleaded distressfully.
"Then I must just go on waiting."
"I wish you wouldn't even do that."
"I can only prevent it by putting a bullet through my head."
The quiet finality of his tone was more convincing than volumes of protestations; and she shuddered.
"Don't say such things, please.—You hurt me."