"I thought I did. But to-night when I looked at you looking at those kids, I knew differently. You want to be married and have children of your own. I don't know as much about me—don't know," he said in a slight break of despair, "that I come into the picture much."
It was dark enough to hide her flush.
"When I ask 'Can't you relent'?" said Rokeby, "I ought to say instead 'Can't you confess?' That's what you don't want to do."
"If—" she began.
"Yes, dear. If?"
"If I married you—"
She paused a long while and he declared passionately: "You're afraid to risk marriage and yet you want to. You don't know what to do. You like being loved; you pretend you don't, but you do. You're feeling how sweet it all is. But you will not own it even to yourself."
And she answered: "I am afraid."
"I know you are," said Rokeby; "and so am I. Haven't you thought of that?"
"What do you mean?"