Crawford sat motionless for a long while. At last he passed his hands over his eyes, leaning forward and looking into her face.
“I’ve simply got to be honest with you,” he said; “I know there is a mistake.”
“No, there is no mistake,” she said, bending her head and looking him in the eyes—“unless you have made the mistake—unless,” she said, quickly—“you do not want me.”
“Want you!” he stammered, catching fire of a sudden—“want you, you beautiful child! I love you if ever man loved on earth! Want you?” His hand fell heavily on hers, and closed. For an instant their palms lay close together; her heart almost stopped; then a swift flame flew to her face and she struggled to withdraw her fingers twisted in his.
“You must not do that,” she said, breathlessly. “I do not love you—I warned you!”
He said: “You must love me! Can’t you understand? You made me love you—you made me! Listen to me—it is all a mistake—but it is too late now. I did not dare even think of you—I have simply got to tell you the truth—I did not dare think of you—I must say it—and I can’t understand how I could ever have seen you and not loved you. But when you spoke—when I touched you—”
“Please, please,” she said, faintly, “let me go! It is not a mistake; I—I am glad that you love me; I will try to love you. I want to—I believe I can—”
“You must!”
“Yes, … I will.… Please let me go!”
Breathless and crimson, she fell back into her corner, staring at him. He dropped his arm on the back of the rustic seat.