"Vincent," she said slowly, "you don't know what you ask. And I have wished that you would understand, without my having to speak. I have wished that you would understand—and go away—and make our friendship a memory, something to think over in after years. For how can I tell you clearly without seeming cruel and ungrateful to one who has through my whole life been kindness and goodness to me?—no!—no!"
She withdrew her hand; she turned away from him altogether.
"Maisrie," said he, "I don't want you to say anything, except that you love me, and will be my wife."
"Your wife, Vincent—your wife!" she exclaimed, in a piteous sort of way. "How can you ask any one to be your wife who has led the life that I have led? Can you not guess—Vincent—without my having to speak?"
He was astounded—but not alarmed: never had his faith in her flinched for a single instant.
"The life you have led?" said he, rather breathlessly; "Why—a—a beautiful life—an idyllic life—constant travel—and always treated with such kindness and care and affection—an ideal life—why, who would not envy you?"
She was sobbing—with her head averted.
"Don't, Vincent, don't! I cannot—I will not—tell you," she said, in a kind of despair. "What is the use? But it is you who have made me think—it is you who have shown me clearly what I have been. I—I was young—I was only a child; my grandfather was everything to me; whatever he did was right. And now I have become a woman since I knew you—I can see myself—and I know that never, never can I be your wife."
"Maisrie!"
But she paid no heed. She was strangely excited. She rose to her feet: and for a moment he thought he saw a look of her grandfather in her face.