She looked up at me very quietly.
"Well, Cousin Roger; and what then?"
That confused me a little; for I had thought that she had understood.
And then I thought that perhaps she too was confused.
"Why, my dear," I said very patiently as I thought, as one would speak to a child, "I am asking you if you will be my wife."
I turned away from the fire altogether, and faced her, thinking I should have her in my arms. But at first she said nothing at all, but sat immovable, scrutinizing me, I thought, as if to read all that was in my head and heart. But it was all new to me, for what did I know of love except that it was very strange and sweet? So I waited for her answer. That answer came.
"Cousin Roger," she said in a very low voice, "I am very sorry you have spoken as you have—"
I straightened myself suddenly and looked at her more closely. She had not moved at all, except her face. A kind of roaring murmur began to fill my ears.
"Because," said she—and every word of hers now was pain to me—"because there is but one answer that I can give, which is No."
"Why—" cried I.
"You have spoken very kindly and generously. But—" and at this her voice began to ring a little—"but I am not what you think me—a maid to be flung at the head of any man who will choose to take her."