“You are asking for friendship now?” she said.
“Yes”—he hesitated—“yes, friendship.”
“Will you be content with that?”
“Can it ever be friendship after this? Will it not be less—or more?”
“Less,” she said.
“I suppose so,” he admitted dully. “It's a small matter to you; but an hour ago I would have said it was a matter of life and death to me! You suffered—you loved!”
“You have no right to speak of it!” she cried. “Because I have trusted you—” She broke off abruptly.
“And I suppose you think I have taken advantage of your trust! I did not know until now—that is, I could not have imagined that a man could so offend a woman merely by telling her that he loved her.” She did not answer him; and after a moment's silence he went on. “Can you tell me how out of the wreck I seem to have made, I can preserve some portion of your esteem? In Heaven's name, let it be friendship if it is nothing more!”
“Wait!” she said, not unkindly; and then softening, “Oh, how could you, when you knew that I trusted you; that has been the cruelest part of it!”
“It was so easy,” he said. “But we look at it from such hopelessly different points of view.”