“Then, why cannot you love me, Muriel?” I demanded, bending towards her in desperation.
“I—I’m foolish to have come here,” she said, in sudden desperation, rising from her chair.
“Why foolish?” I asked. “Even though you may love another you are always welcome to my rooms as of old. I bear you no ill-will, Muriel,” I said, not, however, without bitterness.
A silence fell. Again she sighed deeply, and then at last raising her fair face to mine, she exclaimed in an eager, trembling tone—
“Forgive me, Clifton! Forgive me! I have come here to-night to ask you to have pity upon me. I know how I have wronged you, but I have come to tell you that I still love you—to ask whether you consider me still worthy of your love?”
“Of course, darling!” I cried, springing forward, instantly placing my arm about her neck and imprinting a fond kiss upon her white brow. “Of course I love you,” I repeated, enthusiastic in my newly-found contentment. “Since you have gone out of my life I have been sad and lonely indeed; and when I knew that you loved another all desire for life left me. I—”
“But I love you, Clifton,” she cried, interrupting. “It was but a foolish passing fancy on my part to prefer that man to you who have always been my friend, who have always been so kind and so thoughtful on my behalf. I wronged you deeply, and have since repented it.”
“The knowledge that you still love me, dearest, is sufficient. It gives me the completest satisfaction; it renders me the most happy man in all the world,” and still retaining her hand I pressed it warmly to my lips.
“Then you forgive me?” she asked, with a seriousness that at such a moment struck me as curious.
“Forgive you? Certainly!” I answered. “This estrangement has tested the affection of both of us. We now know that it is impossible for us to live apart.”