"It is not easy to speak—what I want to say."
"I am not anxious to make it easy!"
"Why not?" said Rotha, looking suddenly up at him, with such innocent, eager, questioning eyes that he was much inclined to put a sudden stop to her communications. But she had something on her mind, and it was better that she should get rid of it; so he restrained himself.
"Go on, Rotha. What is it?"
"I can hardly talk to you so, Mr. Digby. I think, if I were standing over yonder by the window, with all that space between us, I could manage it better."
"I am not going to put space between us in any way, nor for any reason.
What is this all about?"
"It is just that, Mr. Southwode. I think—I am afraid—I think, perhaps, you spoke hastily to me yesterday, and might find out afterwards that it was not just the best thing—"
"What?"
"I—for you," said the girl bravely; though her cheeks burned and every nerve in her trembled. He could feel how she was trembling. "I think— maybe,—you might find it out after a while; and I would rather you should find it out at once. I propose,"—she went on hurriedly, forcing herself to say all she had meant to say;—"I propose, that we agree to let things be as if you had not said it; let things be as they were—for a year,—until next summer, I mean. And then, if you think it was not a mistake, you can tell me."
She had turned a little pale now, and her lip quivered slightly. And after a slight pause, which Mr. Southwode did not break, she went on,—