“Please, please, dear,” pleaded Orde. He had nothing more to say than this, just the simple incoherent symbols of pleading; but in such crises it is rather the soul than the tongue that speaks. His hand met hers and closed about it. It did not respond to his grasp, nor did it draw away, but lay limp and warm and helpless in his own.
She shook her head slowly.
“Don't you care for me, dear?” asked Orde very gently.
“I have no right to tell you that,” answered she. “I have tried, oh, so hard, to keep you from saying this, for I knew I had no right to hear you.”
Orde's heart leaped with a wild exultation.
“You do care for me!” he cried.
They had mounted the steps and stood just within the vestibule. Orde drew her toward him, but she repulsed him gently.
“No,” she shook her head. “Please be very good to me. I'm very weak.”
“Carroll!” cried Orde. “Tell me that you love me! Tell me that you'll marry me!”
“It would kill mother if I should leave her,” she said sadly.