“Louise, what are you going to say to me in return for my confession? Won’t you love me a little in return? Won’t you give me some hope?”
Was this Cecil Laurens, the cold, the proud, the dignified, pleading to the girl he had disapproved of, the girl he had called such a baby? She looked at him in wonder and consternation.
“Oh, what have I done?” she cried out in dismay.
“You have bewitched me, I think,” her lover replied with his rarely beautiful smile.
“Mr. Laurens, do you really mean it? I—I believed you disliked me, hated me,” she breathed in a low, half-tender tone, very different from her usual mocking one.
“I mean it all, Louise. I love you passionately, and I have suffered torments in the last three weeks from pique and jealousy that I mistook for anger. Now, my dear, I have been very frank with you. Will you be as candid in return?” asked Cecil Laurens in a low, winning tone, and with a glorious smile. Certainly although he had learned his love so suddenly, he knew how to play the lover well.
She trembled and drew back from him as he leaned toward her. All the sweet vivid color faded from her face, and her dark eyes sought the ground.
“I believe you now, Mr. Laurens, although at first I thought you were jesting,” she said, and her voice was distinctly tremulous. “I—I—yes, I will be candid with you. I am—am—sorry—you—care for me—for—it—is—useless, hopeless!”
“Hopeless, Louise? Are you sure?” he asked. “If you have no other lover, let me try to win you. Your heart is free?”
“No, no, for I love some one else,” she said, desperately.