“Ah! I only wish that you entertained one little thought for me, Aimée—one kindly reflection regarding myself—I who love you so.”
And, bending, he stretched forth his hand to seize hers. But she swiftly withdrew it.
“Oh, why return to that subject again, m’sieur!” she protested impatiently. “Its discussion only pains us both. I am fully aware that my father is anxious, for business reasons, that we should marry, but I assure you, once and for all, that I will never accept any man whom I do not love.”
“You put it—well, a trifle bluntly, Mademoiselle.”
“I only speak the truth, quite openly and frankly,” she responded, her big serious eyes turned upon his. “Would you have me accept, and afterwards fool you!”
Her question—a somewhat disconcerting one—held him silent for some moments.
“Remember, Aimée,” he said at last, in a deep voice, “I have known you ever since you were a tiny child. I have watched you grow to become a woman, and gradually I have realised that there is no woman in the whole world whom I love—except your own dear self. Can you doubt me?”
And with an earnest expression that was well feigned, he looked straight into her pale, set countenance.
“No, m’sieur, I do not doubt you,” was the girl’s quiet response, and he fancied he saw her trembling slightly. “But when, the other day, you asked if I could ever love you, I told you the bare truth—brutal as it may have appeared. Yet I am not mistress of my own heart, and I tell you that I do not love you—I can never love you—never!”
“I am too old,” he murmured bitterly.