Long ago, in the early days of our friendship, when she used to sit and chat with me over tea in my chambers, she had explained how unvaried food was one of the chief causes of complaint among shop-assistants.
“But I can’t bear to think that you are in such a place as that,” I said. “Madame’s was so much more genteel.”
“Oh, don’t think of me!” she responded with a brightness which I knew she did not really feel at heart.
“But I do,” I said earnestly. “I do, Muriel; because I love you. Tell me now,” I added, taking her arm. “Tell me why you have turned from me.”
She was silent a moment, then in a faltering voice, replied—
“Because—because it was imperative. Because I knew that I did not love you.”
“But will you never do so?” I asked in desperation. “Will you never give me hope? I am content to wait, only tell me that you will still remember me, and try to think of me with thoughts of love.”
“To entertain vain hope is altogether useless,” she answered philosophically.
“Then you actually love this man?” I inquired bitterly. “You have allowed him to worm himself into your heart by soft glances and softer speeches; to absorb your thoughts and to kiss your lips, without troubling to inquire if he is worthy of you, or if he is honest, manly, and upright? Why have you thus abandoned prudence?”
“I have not abandoned prudence,” she answered, a trifle indignantly, at the same time extricating her arm from mine. “I should certainly do so were I to consent to become yours.”