In silence she gazed for a few moments away upon the broad expanse of green sunlit sea. Then she exclaimed—
“And you will return to London—and—and—forget me!”
“No, never, Doroteita,” I said passionately. “I shall always look upon these as the happiest hours of my life!”
Her breast rose and fell. As we walked together, I held her small, well-gloved hand in mine, breathing into her ear the tender passion that had overwhelmed me. I scarce know what words I uttered, but she heard me patiently in pensive silence until I had concluded. Then, withdrawing her hand slowly but firmly, she replied in a voice that betrayed emotion—
“No, no. Our relationship can never be closer than that of friends. Our lives lie so very, very far apart.”
“Ah, I know!” I cried in disappointment, stopping and gazing straight into her great liquid eyes. “If I were wealthy, I might dare to ask for your hand. As it is, Doroteita—as it is, may I not entertain hope?”
Slowly and sadly she shook her head.
“But I love you.”
“That I do not doubt,” she said huskily, sighing heavily.
“You do not reciprocate my affection sufficiently,” I hazarded.