“And I am unable to answer you—unable to tell the truth, Nino,” she replied brokenly, her trembling hand seeking his.
“Why unable?” he demanded, sitting erect and staring at her in blank surprise.
“Because—because I love you too well to deceive you,” she sobbed. Then she added, “No, after all, it will be best for us to part—best for you. If you knew all, as you must some day—if we married, you would only hate me;” and she burst into a torrent of blinding tears.
“Hate you—why?” he asked, slipping his arm around her slim waist.
With a sudden movement she raised her veil and wiped away the tears with her little lace handkerchief.
“Ah! forgive me,” she exclaimed apologetically. “I did not believe I was so weak. But I love you, Nino. I cannot bear the thought of being parted from you.”
“There is surely no necessity to part,” he said, purposely disregarding the strange self-accusation she had just uttered.
“You must go to Paris. Therefore we must part,” she said, sighing deeply.
“Then you will not accompany me?”
Her blue eyes, childlike in their innocence, were fixed upon his. They were again filled with tears.