She did not move. "I—don't know." Then she faced him squarely. "I do not love you, Tarrano." Something in his eyes—a quality of pleading; a wistful smile upon his lips—suddenly struck her as pathetic. Strange and queerly pathetic that such a man as he should be reduced to wistfulness. Emotion swept her. Not love. A feeling of sympathy; a womanly desire to lighten his sorrow; to sympathize and yet to withhold from him the happiness he sought.
"I do not love you, Tarrano. But I do respect you. And I am sorry—"
"Respect! I have told you I can command that from everyone. But love—your love—"
"I would give it if I could, Tarrano."
"You mean—you're trying to love me—and cannot?"
"I mean—Oh, I don't know what I mean, save that I do not love you yet."
He smiled. "I think you speak the truth when you say you do not know what you mean. Your love! If I had it, I should know that I would have it always. But—having it not—" He was very sincere, but his smile broadened. "Having it not, my Elza, there is no power in all the heavens that can tell me how to get it. It may be born in a moment from now—or never. Who can tell?"
She was silent; and after a moment, he added: "Enough of this. I would ask you just one thing. You are not afraid of me, are you?"
"No," she said; and at that moment she meant it.
"I would not have you ever be afraid, Lady Elza. Love is not conceived by fear. And you must know I could never force my love upon you. For if I did—I should withhold forever the birth of this love of yours which is all I seek—this love I am trying to breathe into life.... Enough!"