“There are circumstances which entirely prevent such a course,” she answered. “Unfortunately, it is impossible for me to be more explicit.”
“So you are prevented by some utterly inexplicable circumstances from loving me?” I observed, greatly puzzled.
“Yes,” she responded, toying with the tassel of her sunshade.
“But tell me, Eva,” I asked hoarsely, again grasping her chilly, nervous hand, “can you never love me? Are you actually convinced that in your own heart you have no spark of affection for me?”
She paused, then glanced at me. I fancied I saw in her blue eyes the light of unshed tears.
“Your question is a rather difficult one,” she faltered. “Even if I reciprocated your love our positions would not be altered. We should still be alienated as we now are.”
“Why?”
“Because—because we may not love each other,” she answered, in a low, strained voice—the voice of a woman terribly agitated. “Let us part to-day and never again meet. It will be best for both of us—far the best.”
“No,” I cried, intensely in earnest. “I cannot leave you, Eva, because I love you far too dearly. If you cannot love me now, then bear with me a little, and you will later learn to love me.”
“In one year, nay, in ten, my answer must, of necessity, be the same as it is to-day,” she responded. “A negative one.”