“Ah, George,” she murmured brokenly, “you do not know the fatality that of late has encompassed me, or you would not reproach me. You would pity me.”
He saw she was trembling. Her eyes were downcast, her chin had fallen upon her breast.
“I cannot sympathise with you, or advise you, if you will not tell me the cause of your distress,” he said in a kindly tone, grasping her hand.
They were in the eastern end of the garden, at a spot but little frequented.
“I know you must hate me for having deceived you like this, but truly I could not avoid it. Many, many times have I striven to write to you and tell you the truth, but my words looked so cold, formal and cruel on paper that I always tore up the letter. While you were in ignorance I knew that you still loved me, but now—”
“Well, I am still in ignorance,” he interrupted.
“And I have lost you!” she cried despairingly.
“Why? I still love you.”
“But I must not—I dare not think of love again!” she whispered hoarsely. “From to-day we must part. You must go away and let us both try and forget all that has passed between us. If I have acted cruelly, forgive me. It was because I have been so weak—because I loved you so well.”
“No,” he answered firmly, “I shall not leave you, dearest. I love you still as fondly as in the old days when we strolled together around Stratfield; therefore you shall not send me away like this.”