"I wish to ask you something."
"With pleasure," she said; "go ahead." And she settled back, fearlessly expectant.
"Very well, then," he said, striving to speak coolly. "It is this: Will you marry me, Eileen?"
She turned perfectly white and stared at him, stunned. And he repeated his question, speaking slowly, but unsteadily.
"N-no," she said; "I cannot. Why—why, you know that, don't you?"
"Will you tell me why, Eileen?"
"I—I don't know why. I think—I suppose that it is because I do not love you—that way."
"Yes," he said, "that, of course, is the reason. I wonder—do you suppose that—in time—perhaps—you might care for me—that way?"
"I don't know." She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet repelled. "I don't know," she repeated pitifully. "Is it—can't you help thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?"
"No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen."