Again her head fell on her breast, and her hands linked themselves on her knees as she knelt there in silence.
"Lois," I said, trying to think clearly, "I do not know that other men and I are different. Once I believed so. But—lately—I do not know. Yet, I know this: selfish or otherwise, I can not endure the thought of you in peril."
She looked at me very gravely; then dropped her head once more.
"I don't know," I said desperately, "I wish to be honest—tell you no lie—tell none to myself. I—your beauty—has touched me—or whatever it is about you that attracts. And, whatever gown you go in, I scarcely see it—somehow—finding you so—so strangely—lovely—in speech also—and in—every way.... And now that I have not lied to you—or to myself—in spite of what I have said, let me be useful to you. For I can be; and perhaps these other sentiments will pass away——"
She looked up so suddenly that I ceased speaking, fearful of a rebuff; but saw only the grave, grey eyes looking straight into mine, and a sudden, deeper colour waning from her cheeks.
"Whatever I am," said I, "I can be what I will. Else I were no man. If your—beauty—has moved me, that need not concern you—and surely not alarm you. A woman's beauty is her own affair. Men take their chance with it—as I take mine with yours—that it do me no deep damage. And if it do, or do not, our friendship is still another matter; for it means that I wish you well, desire to aid you, ease your burdens, make you secure and safe, vary your solitude with a friendly word—I mean, Lois, to be to you a real comrade, if you will. Will you?"
After a moment she said:
"What was it that you said about my—beauty?"
"I take my chances that it do me no deep damage."
"Oh! Am I to take my chance, too?"