“What!” he ejaculated, starting and regarding her in abject dismay. “Why, what is there to prevent it? Surely you cannot say that you no longer love me?”
“Ah! no,” she answered, panting, her gloved hand still clutching his arm. “I do love you, George. I swear I love you at this moment as no other woman ever can.”
“Yet you cannot marry me?”
“It is impossible.”
“Ah! don’t say that, darling,” he protested. “We love each other too well ever to be parted.”
“But we must part,” she answered, in a blank, despairing voice. “You must no longer think of me, except as one who has loved you, as one who will still think often, very often, of you.”
“Impossible!” he cried quickly. “You told me once that you loved me, that you would wait a year or so if necessary, and that you would marry me.”
“I know! I know!” she wailed, covering her face with her hands. “And I told you the truth.”
“Then you have met someone else whom you love better,” he observed, in a tone of poignant sorrow.
She did not reply. Her heart was too full for words. Her breath came in short, quick gasps, and she laid one hand upon the stone balustrade to steady herself.