She had stood enticingly near me as we pulled down the volumes. My heart beat wildly as she sat by my side, while I mechanically turned the pages. The brush of her garments against my sleeve quite maddened me. I had not dared to look into her eyes, as I talked meaningless, bookish words.
Summoning all my self-control, I now faced her. "Marguerite," I said hoarsely, "look at me."
She lifted her eyes and met my gaze unflinchingly, the moisture of fresh tears gleaming beneath her lashes.
"Forgive me," I entreated.
"For what?" she asked simply, smiling a little through her tears.
"For being a fool," I declared fiercely, "for believing your cordiality toward me as Dr. Zimmern's friend to mean more than--than it should mean."
"But I do not understand," she said. "Should I not have told you that I liked you because you were young? Of course if you don't want me to--to--" She paused abruptly, her face suffused with a delicate crimson.
I stepped toward her and reached out my arms. But she drew back and slipped quickly around the table. "No," she cried, "no, you have said that you did not want me."
"But I do," I cried. "I do want you."
"Then why did you say those things to me?" she asked haughtily.