"Dear Richard," I heard her say, "God alone understands how it hurts me to give you pain. Had I only foreseen—"
"Had you only foreseen," I said quickly.
"I should never have let you speak."
Her words came steadily, but painfully. And when I raised my eyes she met them bravely.
"You must have seen," I cried. "These years I have loved you, nor could I have hidden it if I had wished. But I have little—to offer you," I went on cruelly, for I knew not what I said; "you who may have English lands and titles for the consenting. I was a fool."
Her tears started again. And at sight of them I was seized with such remorse that I could have bitten my tongue in two.
"Forgive me, Dorothy, if you can," I implored. "I did not mean it. Nor did I presume to think you loved me. I have adored,—I shall be content to adore from far below. And I stayed,—I stayed that I might save you if a danger threatened."
"Danger!" she exclaimed, catching her breath.
"I will come to the point," I said. "I stayed to save you from the Duke of Chartersea."
She grasped the balcony rail, and I think would have fallen but for my arm. Then she straightened, and only the quiver of her lip marked the effort.