The answer was promptly forthcoming:
"I cannot promise what you ask, but you may come and see me if you wish."
Pale with expectancy, Hayward was only the ghost of himself when the servant admitted him. He had waited but a moment when Constance entered the room wearing the gown in which he had first seen her. He rose to meet her, but she came and sat down by his side.
"Listen," she said, "and I will tell you how I feel. I am twenty-five and I have never 'cared.' I do not believe that I ever shall care, for the love that we read of is almost incomprehensible to me. You cannot marry such a woman."
His answer was fervent, his words crowded one upon another in a vehement flood, and his voice was low and hoarse with pent-up emotion, as he implored her to believe in him, trust him, and be his wife,—kneeling at her feet and kissing her hands in abject humility.
It was very hard for her to say what she must, but with an effort she rose and drew away from him.
"I must be true to myself and to you," she said, "and I can say nothing but the old bitter No."
White and wretched, he went away, leaving her white and wretched behind him.
For days and weeks thereafter, Hayward painted busily. Jennings went to see him one afternoon.
"Look here, old fellow," he said, "what's the matter? I know I was ungentlemanly about the handkerchief, but that's no reason why you should cut us all this way. Can't you forget about it?"