“Why have you not called before?” I inquired, when, at length, she grew less agitated. “I have expected you daily for so long.”
“I’ve been away in the country,” she answered. “But do not think that I have not remembered you.”
“Nearly three weeks have gone by since you were last here,” I said. “It is too cruel of you not to allow me to write to you.”
“No,” she said decisively, “you must not write. You have already promised me, and I know you will not break any compact you make.”
“But I love you, Aline,” I whispered, bending forward to her.
“Yes, alas! I know that,” she responded, rousing herself. “Yet, why carry this folly further?”
“Folly you call it?” I exclaimed regretfully. “Because you cannot love me in return you tell me I am foolish. Since you have been absent I have examined my own heart, and I swear that my love is more than mere admiration. I think of no one in the world besides yourself.”
“No, no,” she said uneasily. “There is some other woman whom you could love far better, a woman who would make you a true and faithful wife.”
“But I can love no one else.”
“Try,” she answered, looking me straight in the face. “Before we met you loved one who reciprocated your affection.”