“But you are not bright and happy as you used to be,” he declared sympathetically. “Something troubles you. Confide in me, darling.”
She turned her face from him and tears slowly coursed down her cheeks. But she made no response. Together they walked several times the whole length of the terrace, and their conversation drifted to other topics. He told her of his bachelor life in London, his lonely, dreary chambers, of his desperate struggle to secure a foothold in his already overcrowded profession, and of his good fortune in obtaining a little book-reviewing for a weekly paper.
“Now, what distresses you, Liane?” he asked at last, when again they were standing against the parapet gazing over the sea. “Surely I may know?”
“No,” she murmured. “No, George, you cannot.”
“Do you fear to trust me—the man who loves you?” he asked in a reproachful tone, grasping her hand.
“Ah!” she cried with sudden emotion, “do not make my burden heavier to bear, George. Why have you come here to me—now?”
“Why now? Are you not pleased that I should be beside you when you are unhappy?”
“Yes—I mean no,” she sobbed. “Your presence here only adds to my torture.”
“Torture?” he echoed. “What do you mean, Liane?”
“I must tell you now,” she gasped, clutching his arm convulsively, and raising her tearful face to his with an imploring look. “You will not think me false, cruel and heartless—will you? But I cannot marry you.”