She glanced up at him. “That you don't look much like a beggar,” she said.
“It is possible to feel tattered in a frock-coat and patent-leather boots,” he answered. “Good-bye. I am going back to my crossing.” And he moved towards the door.
“No, stop!” she exclaimed. “Before you go, tell me one thing.”
“What is it?”
“Will you ever ask me to marry you again?”
He looked hard into her eyes. “I shall always want to, but I shall never do it,” he said slowly.
“I am glad you have told me that. We women depend so much on a repetition of the offence, when we blame a man for saying he loves us, and ask him not to do it again. If you really mean only to propose once, I must reconsider my position.”
She was laughing, but the tears stood in her eyes.
“Why do you want to make this moment a farcical one?” he asked rather bitterly.
“Oh, Hugh!” she answered, “don't you see? Because it is really—really so tragic. I only try to do for this moment what we all try to do for life.”