“I am not.”
“Well, I do not love you, and I never shall. Now let us end this melodrama.”
Cleeve took up the oars and rowed rapidly to the landing place. Then, as she stepped onto the platform, he took her into his arms.
“You must,” he said, looking down at her. “It’s all your own fault. You did it willfully. Now you must love me.”
His dogged persistency puzzled her and routed all her usual array of graceful phrases.
“Am I being invited to—elope with you?” she asked, laughing a little shrilly.
He flushed. “No. I—love you. But—you must feel something of this that is hurting me. Hurting? Why, it’s hell.”
“Hell! I am sorry—indeed I am——”
“Oh, that does no good. Words can’t help. You have got to suffer, too,” he returned, still holding her round the shoulders.
It was, in spite of the thrill of the unusual that she distinctly felt, absurd. It ought to be laughed at. So she laughed.