“You are lonely,” I blurted forth. “I have watched you, and I have seen that you are in sore need of a friend. Do you deny that?”
“No,” she faltered. “I—I—yes, what you say is, alas! correct. How can I deny it? I have no friend; I am alone.”
“Then allow me to be one. Put to me whatever test you will,” I exclaimed, “and I hope I may bear it satisfactorily. I, too, am a lonely man—a wanderer. I, too, am in need of a friend in whom I can confide, whose guidance I can ask. Surely there is no friend better for a lonely man than a good woman?”
“Ah, no,” she cried, suddenly covering her face with both her hands. “You don’t know—you are ignorant. Why do you say this?”
“Why? Shall I tell you why?” I asked, gallantly bending to her in deep earnestness. “Because I have watched you—because I know you are very unhappy!”
She held her breath. By the faint ray of the distant electric light I saw her face had become changed. She betrayed her emotions and her nervousness by the quick twitching of her fingers and her lips.
“No,” she said at last very decisively; “you must abandon all thought of friendship with me. It is impossible—quite impossible!”
“Would my friendship be so repugnant to you, then?” I asked quickly.
“No, no, not that,” she cried, laying her trembling fingers upon my coat-sleeve. “You—you don’t understand—you cannot dream of my horrible position—of the imminent peril of yours.”