“We cannot help that, Lola,” I said, in deep sympathy at her distress.
“No. Unfortunately we can’t,” she replied faintly, in a voice full of emotion. “But it would be fatal to us both if we loved each other. Surely, George, you can see that!”
“I don’t see it, dearest,” I exclaimed, bending and kissing her fondly on the cheek for the first time. We had halted in the forest path, and now I held her in my arms, though she resisted slightly. “I love you, darling!” I cried. “I love you!”
“No! No!” she protested. “You must not—you cannot love me. I am only the daughter of a man who, at any moment, might be arrested—a man for whom the police are ever in search, but cannot find.”
“I know all that; but you, dearest, are not a thief!” I urged, for I loved her with all the strength of my being—with all my soul.
She trembled and sobbed, but did not reply. Her tearful face was hidden upon my shoulder.
“Do you care for me in the least?” I whispered to her. “Tell me, dear, do.”
She was silent.
I repeated my question, until at last she raised her face to mine, and, though she did not speak, I knew with joy that her answer was in the affirmative. And then I poured out my secret to her, how ever since I had first seen her I had loved her to distraction; and how the knowledge that she reciprocated my affection had rendered me the happiest man in the world.
For a long time we remained locked in each other’s arms. How long I cannot tell.