He sat still for a moment, looking quietly at her from his sad brown eyes in a way she thought would break her heart. "I was afraid so," he said at last; "I suppose I really knew it, all along. It's been my fault."
"Oh, Harry," she burst out, "if you only knew how much I wanted to! If you only knew how terrible it is to see you sit there and say that, and not be able to say yes! I like you so much, and you are such a dear altogether, and you're so wonderful about this—oh, why, why, in Heaven's name, can't I love you?"
"But Madge, surely you must be mistaken! How can you talk that way and not have—the real feeling? Madge, you must be in love with me, only you don't know it!"
"That's just what I've said to myself, time after time—I've lain awake whole nights telling myself that. But it isn't so, it isn't! I can't deceive myself into thinking so and I won't deceive you.... I just—can't—love you, because I'm not good enough! Oh, it is so terrible!..." Her voice suddenly failed; she sank to her knees on the floor and buried her head among the cushions of the sofa in an uncontrollable fit of weeping.
For a moment Harry was overcome by a desire to seize that grief-stricken little figure in his arms and kiss away her ridiculous tears. A second thought, however, showed the fruitlessness of that; small comfort to his arms if their souls could not embrace! Instead he quietly arose from his seat and shut the door, which seemed the most sensible thing to do under the circumstances. He then walked over to the piano and stood leaning on it, head on hands, thoughtfully and silently watching the diminishing sobs of Madge.
When these at last reached the vanishing point their author turned suddenly. Harry continued to stare quietly back at her for a second or two and then slowly and solemnly winked his right eye. Madge emitted a strange sound between a laugh and a sob, turned her face away again and plied her handkerchief briskly.
"Here I am, of course," she said presently, "thinking of nothing but indulging my own silly feelings, as usual. And you, poor Harry, who really are capable of feeling, just stand there like Patience on a monument.... Harry, why don't you swear at me, kick me? do something to make it easier for me?..." She picked herself up, walked over toward the piano and laid her hands on its smooth black surface in a caressing sort of way. The piano had been given to her by her Aunt Tizzy and she loved it very much, but she did not think of it at all now. "Harry," she began again, "Harry, dear, I'll tell you what we'll do—I'll marry you, if you like, anyway.... I'll make you a lovely wife; I'll do anything in the wide world to be a comfort to you, just to show you how much I would love to love you if I could...."
Harry, still looking gravely at her, shook his head slowly. "It would never do, Madge," he said; "never in the world. We must wait until we can start fair. You see that?"
She nodded. "I suppose I do—from your point of view."
"No—from our point of view."