“How do you know him?” she interrupted, regarding me in wonder. “Have you seen us together?”
“Yes,” I replied, bitterly. “Last night I saw you with him. How long will you scorn my affection and trample my love beneath your feet? Think, Muriel!” I implored; “think how dearly I love you. Tell me that this shall not continue always.”
“I am perfectly happy,” she answered, in a mechanical tone, not, however, without noticing my hesitation. “I have no desire to change.”
“Happy!” I repeated blankly. “Are you then happy in that low-class drapery place, where you are compelled to dance attendance on the wives of city clerks, and are treated with contempt by them because they think it a sign of good breeding to show capriciousness, and give you all the unnecessary trouble possible? In their eyes—in the eyes of those around you—you are only a ‘shop-girl,’ but in mine, Muriel,” I added, bending nearer her in deep earnestness, “you are a queen—a woman fitted to be my wife. Can you never love me? Will you never love me?”
“It is impossible!” she answered in faltering tones, walking slower as though she would return to escape me.
“Why impossible?”
“I am entirely happy as I am,” she responded.
“Because this man with whom I saw you last night has declared his love for you,” I cried fiercely. “You believe him, and thus cast me aside.”
She drew a long breath, and her dark eyes were downcast.
“What has caused you to turn from me like this?” I demanded. “Through the years we have been acquainted, Muriel, I have admired you; I have watched your growth from an awkward schoolgirl into a graceful and beautiful woman; I alone know how you have suffered, and how bravely you have borne the buffets of adversity. I have therefore a right to love you, Muriel—a right to regard you as my own.”