Suddenly a thought flashed through my mind.
“Perhaps,” I said, “perhaps I’ve been too precipitate. If so—if I have spoken too plainly and frankly—forgive me, Eva. It is only because I can no longer repress the great love I bear you. I think of you always—always. My every thought is of you; my every hope is of happiness at your side; my very life depends upon your favour and your love.”
“No, no!” she cried, with a quick movement of her hand as if to stay my words. “Don’t say that. You may remain my friend if you like—but you may never be my lover—never!”
“Never your lover!” I gasped, starting back as though she had dealt me a blow. I felt at that moment as though all I appreciated in life was slipping from me. I had staked all, everything, and lost. “Ah, do not give me this hasty answer,” I urged. “I have been too eager; I am a fool. Yet I love you with a stronger, fiercer passion than any man can ever love you with, Eva. You are my very life,” and notwithstanding her effort to snatch her hand away, I again raised it reverently to my lips.
“No, no. This is a mere summer dream, Mr Urwin,” she said, with a cool firmness well assumed, although she avoided my gaze. “I have flirted with you, it is true, and we have spent many pleasant hours together, but I have never taken you seriously. You were always so merry and careless, you know.”
“You did not believe, then, that I really loved you?” I observed, divining her thoughts.
“Exactly,” she answered, still very grave. “If I had thought so, I should never have allowed our acquaintance to ripen as it has done.”
“Are you annoyed that I should have declared only what is but the absolute truth?” I asked.
“Not at all,” she responded quickly, with something of her old self in her low, sweet voice. “How can I be annoyed?”
“And you will forgive my hasty declaration?” I urged.