“No,” he answered, “I have known always that you would not care to hear this; that it would only hurt you.”
“Then why have you told me?” she demanded.
“The reason was in my words—because I love you!” he said. “I hoped that the time might come—”
“Never!” she cried, with fierce insistence. “Never! It can never come!”
“Even so; that I should love you was inevitable, you might have foreseen that! How could I meet you day after day, be near you, be your friend, and not come to love you! I only wonder that I was able to hold my peace so long as I did!”
“Then I was not at fault, none of the blame was mine?”
“None,” he assured her; but he was white to the lips.
“Then if I am not at fault I shall never forgive you!” There was a ring of triumph in her tone. She had wished his own words to vindicate her.
“Perhaps you may. It may even come to forgiveness,” he said. “No, I shall never forget the advantage you have taken!”
“I have paid you the highest compliment I could,” he said steadily. She made him a scornful gesture, and though his cheeks burnt, he went on. “That I have loved you, that I do love you, is my right; my own unworthiness, of which you cannot be more aware than I am, has nothing to do with it.”