“I tell you fairly I can give you no hope.”
“Try and love me. I can make life a dream to you. Your every wish shall be gratified. My whole time shall be spent in anticipating your lightest fancy. O Hattie! do not drive me to despair, desperation.”
She was silent. They had stopped right opposite to where I sat concealed. I frankly confess I was too much interested to think of making my proximity known. It was a mean thing to remain where I was. I reproach myself while I write.
“I do not care for your money,” he raved on. “I have millions, ay, millions at my command, and those millions shall be spent to make your life an idyl.”
“Did I not tell you that I could not care for you last season? Did I not repeat it at Martha’s Vineyard two weeks ago? Now I repeat it again and for the last time. Let us be friends.”
“Friends!” he bitterly cried.
“Yes, friends, and good friends. Why not? In a short time you will wonder you ever were in love with me, and—”
“Never!” he burst in.
“Oh! yes, you will. And, what is more, you will fall in love with somebody else.”
“Do you wish to drive me mad?”