“I am listening,” she replied coldly. “But pray, Mr. Moulton, be good enough to release my hand.”
He did not release it, but drew it within his arm, and then led her to one end of the balcony.
“Miss Dupont—Dora, I love you; will you be my wife?”
“No, sir,” she answered, sharply.
He started violently; then said, reproachfully:
“I beg your pardon; did I understand you aright?”
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Moulton, for allowing myself to speak in such a manner,” she replied, wearily.
Her heart had been almost broken with the scene that had just transpired, and she did not feel equal to another.
“I have not been feeling very happy for a few moments past,” she went on; “but I am pained at your declaration, for I cannot return your affection.”
“Miss Dupont, you must not say that,” he returned, almost fiercely, “for my happiness—nay, my life depends upon your love.”