“Sylvia,” I said tenderly at last, again taking her hand in mine, “why cannot you be open and frank with me?” She allowed her hand to lie soft and inert in mine, sighing the while, her gaze still fixed beyond as though her thoughts were far away. “I love you,” I whispered. “Cannot you see how you puzzle me?—for you seem to be my friend at one moment, and at the next the accomplice of my enemies.”
“I have told you that you must never love me, Mr. Biddulph,” was her low reply, as she withdrew her hand slowly, but very firmly.
“Ah! no,” I cried. “Do not take offence at my words. I’m aware that I’m a hopeless blunderer in love. All I know, Sylvia, is that my only thought is of you. And I—I’ve wondered whether you, on your part, can ever entertain a spark of affection for me?”
She was silent, her white lips pressed close together, a strange expression crossing her features. Again she held her breath, as though what I had said had caused her great surprise. Then she answered—
“How can you love me? Am I not, after all, a mere stranger?”
“I know you sufficiently well,” I cried, “to be aware that for me there exists no other woman. I fear I’m a blunt man. It is my nature. Forgive me, Sylvia, for speaking the truth, but—well, as a matter of fact, I could not conceal the truth any longer.”
“And you tell me this, after—after all that has happened!” she faltered in a low, tremulous voice, as I again took her tiny hand in mine.
“Yes—because I truly and honestly love you,” I said, “because ever since we have met I have found myself thinking of you—recalling you—nay, dreaming of happiness at your side.”
She raised her splendid eyes, and looked into mine for a moment; then, sighing, shook her head sadly.
“Ah! Mr. Biddulph,” she responded in a curious, strained voice, “passion may be perilously misleading. Ask yourself if you are not injudicious in making this declaration—to a woman like myself?”