“No,” she said quickly. “Not now. It is quite impossible.”
“But all my future depends upon your decision,” I urged. “Do not answer lightly, Eva. You must surely have seen that I love you?”
“Yes,” she answered, sighing. “I confess to having seen it. Every woman knows instinctively when she is loved and when despised. The knowledge has caused me deep, poignant regret.”
“Why?”
“Because,” and she hesitated. “Because I have dreaded this day. I feared to tell you the truth.”
“You haven’t told me the truth,” I said, looking her straight in the face.
“I have,” she protested.
“The truth is, then, that you would love me, only you dare not,” I said clearly. “Is that so?”
She nodded, her eyes again downcast, and I saw that hot tears were in them—tears she was unable longer to repress.
When the heart is fullest of love, and the mouth purest with truth, there seems a cruel destiny in things which often renders our words worst chosen and surest to defeat the ends they seek.