“You have inspired in me new hopes, new aspirations—and a fresh ambition.”
“Of what?”
He raised her ungloved hand and kissed it fervently.
She tried to snatch it away, but he held it fast, and, looking into her dark, startled eyes, replied:
“Of making you my wife, Jean.”
“Your wife!” she gasped, her face pale in an instant, as she drew back, astounded at the suggestion.
“Yes. Listen to me!” he cried, quickly, still holding her hand, and drawing her to him as he stepped into the huge room upholstered with pale blue silk. “This is no sudden fancy on my part, Jean. I have watched you—watched you for days and weeks—for gradually I came to know how deeply attached I had become to you—that I love you!”
“No, no!” she exclaimed. “Let me go, please, Lord Bracondale! This is madness. I refuse to hear you. Reflect—and you will see that I can never become your wife!”
And upon her sweet face there spread a hard, pained expression.
“But I repeat, Jean—I swear it—I love you!” he said. “I again repeat my question—Will you honour me by becoming my wife? Can you ever love me sufficiently to sacrifice yourself? And will you try and love me—will you——”