“Vexed, Hal! I am scarcely inhuman enough to be angry on account of being loved.”
Ah, why did I not love him as I have it in me to love! Why did he look so exasperatingly humble? I was weak, oh, so pitifully weak! I wanted a man who would be masterful and strong, who would help me over the rough spots of life—one who had done hard grinding in the mill of fate—one who had suffered, who had understood. No; I could never marry Harold Beecham.
“Well, Syb, little chum, what do you say?”
“Say!”—and the words fell from me bitterly—“I say, leave me; go and marry the sort of woman you ought to marry. The sort that all men like. A good conventional woman, who will do the things she should at the proper time. Leave me alone.”
He was painfully agitated. A look of pain crossed his face.
“Don’t say that, Syb, because I was a beastly cad once: I’ve had all that knocked out of me.”
“I am the cad,” I replied. “What I said was nasty and unwomanly, and I wish I had left it unsaid. I am not good enough to be your wife, Hal, or that of any man. Oh, Hal, I have never deceived you! There are scores of good noble women in the world who would wed you for the asking—marry one of them.”
“But, Syb, I want you. You are the best and truest girl in the world.”
“Och! Sure, the blarney-stone is getting a good rub now,” I said playfully.
Annoyance and amusement struggled for mastery in his expression as he replied: