"But, my dearest girl, you fainted when you heard of his marriage."
"Oh, no, it was not that. I was tired, ill—from traveling, you know," cried poor Geraldine, who would have died rather than admit the truth which her pale, pale cheeks and trembling lips told all too plainly by their mute despair.
But her denial suited the actor's purpose, and he cried, gladly:
"Oh, I am so happy to hear you say you did not care for him. I feared—feared—that your kindness to me, your sweet smiles and ready acceptance of my attentions were only cruel coquetry."
"Oh, no, no," she murmured, helplessly, feeling herself drawn to him by every word he said.
Had she given him cause, then, to believe she meant to accept him?
He caught her hand, and continued, fondly, eagerly:
"Oh, Geraldine, dare I hope you care for me after all? That you will let me love you, and you love me a little in return? Will you—be my wife?"
He saw her shudder as with a mortal chill; then pride came to her aid. She let him keep the hand he had taken, and she answered, faintly:
"Yes."