Jane leaned a little nearer. "Sally," he said softly, "can't you like me a little? Can't you—"
Sally looked up in surprise. "Why, Jane," she replied simply—and truthfully, "I do like you. You know it."
"But, Sally,"—Jane's heart was pounding so that he could not keep the sound of it out of his voice, and his voice was unsteady enough without that,—"but, Sally, can't you—can't you care for me? I—I love you, Sally. I couldn't keep it to myself any longer. I—"
"Oh, Jane!" Sally was the picture of dismay; utter and absolute dismay. She had withdrawn from him a little. And she had forgotten the state of her spirits. She was startled out of her apathy. "I didn't know you were going to say that. Why, oh, why did you? What made you?"
"I simply had to. I have been holding it in as long as I could, and I couldn't see you feeling so, without—well, I had to." Jane spoke more rapidly now. "And, Sally, I realize the absurdity of asking you now, when I am not half through college and you are not through school, but we could wait—couldn't we?—and if you only felt as I do, it would be easier. I am—I shall have some money and I—"
With an impatient wave of her hand Sally brushed all that aside.
"That is of no consequence," she said,—"of no sort of consequence. But why did you do it, Jane? Oh, why did you? You have spoiled it all. I suppose we can't be good friends any more." There were tears in her eyes.
"I can't see why." Jane regarded her for some while without speaking. Sally, I suppose, had nothing to say. "Does that mean," he asked at last, "that you don't care for me in the way that I want?"
"I should think you would know," replied Sally gently.
"And—and you can't?"