“I—I don't know. I did love—I do care for—another woman. I can't marry her, though I am given to understand there is a chance. Perhaps it is partly ambition,” he said honestly, “for I am quite sure she has never cared for me, never thought of me in that way. I think a man can't stand that long.”
“No; only women can. Who is she?”
“You won't ask me, will you?”
“No. Are you sorry that I am in love with you?”
His arms unclasped her body, and he stepped back, facing her.
“Are you?” she asked violently.
“No.”
“You speak like a man,” she said tremulously. “Am I to be permitted to adore you in peace, then—decently, and in peace?”
“Don't speak that way, Leila. I—there is no woman, no friend, I care for as much as I do you. It is easy, I think, for a woman, like you, to make a man care for her. You will not do it, will you?”
“I will,” she said softly.