"But I do," he interrupted, huskily. "Anything that pains you is exquisite torture to me. I love you Carlita, love you so that I can not conceal it as the Disagreeable Man did. I must tell you. It is so much better than that I should keep it to myself until too late, if there should be any hope for me. I am not conceited enough to think there is—you mustn't believe that—but if love really begets love, as they tell us it does, mine ought to meet with some return, for Heaven knows it is great enough. I feel as if I were the Disagreeable Man myself, so gaunt and wasted through illness, so unworthy of your sweet trust and affection, and yet—Oh, Carlita, I don't want to wait as he did, when there might be hope. I know you don't love me. I know I am the most presumptuous man alive, that I can even speak upon the subject to you, but—but won't you say something—something kind?"
She was standing and he sitting, holding her by one hand, his other arm about her waist. He was leaning toward her with his face lifted—a face so true, so honest, so sincere, so wistfully pleading, she almost imagined there was a moisture in the frank blue eyes.
She didn't say anything. She was surprised, and stood there staring down at him, her tears dried suddenly. It seemed to her that she had never felt so strangely in her life. He was the first man who had ever whispered that magic word in her ear. It moved her—moved her peculiarly. She felt the strongest inclination to bend down and kiss him, kiss him upon those blue eyes as she would a little boy. He looked so pale and wan, so haggard through the illness which he did not seem able to shake off. Sympathy quivered in her heart like the flutter of a dove's wings, but she could not frame words to save her life, and stood there staring down at him dumbly.
A great anguish arose in his eyes under her silence. A cold dew gathered upon his brow and stood upon his mouth. He dropped his arm from about her waist and bowed his head.
"Forgive me," he said, hoarsely. "I ought to have known, and not have distressed you with a sentiment which I might have known you could not reciprocate. I might have been satisfied with your generosity in allowing me the privilege of your society without presuming upon that generosity. I suppose now I am to be banished, but I deserve it for my presumption. All the sweet, long evenings that have meant so much to me must be at an end. I must go back to the old emptiness, the old unrest."
"Why?"
The word escaped her unawares, but she was glad that she had spoken it when she saw him fling up his head, saw the eager light that came to his eyes, the flush that colored his pale cheeks.
"Carlita," he whispered, hoarsely, "that moment was like—hell! Speak quickly! Can you be my wife? Could you find in your pure heart toleration for a fellow such as I? I will worship you to the day I die! Speak and relieve me of this awful suspense!"
"I have—have been very happy during these evenings that we have spent together."