“Please—it is dreadful! I beg of you.”
“No. I have been very patient, but I am so no longer. We are here alone: a man and a woman. The world of defense and excuses is far away.”
“Oh, if you only knew! It is so hard! If you think I have been happy this winter, you little know.”
“How long is this indecision to last?”
“I do not know.”
“It is a simple question: Do you care for me? Care! No! I want you to say that you love me! Oh, plainly, Rose Lyndsay, as I have said it until you are weary of it, I dare say.”
“How cruel you are! I cannot. I ought to be so sure about such a thing; and I am not—I am not!”
“Then I think I will go.” He spoke slowly, with measured distinctness.
“I am sorry,” said Rose. “I am more sorry than you can think.”
He made no reply for a moment; but, still seated below her on the ferns, put his hands to his head and, looking down at the pebbles, said: