What's the matter with me? I bet you--"
"Oh, don't!" she begged, "I don't love you; that's all. I can't say
any more."
"Then why did you come out with me this evening?"
"I don't know. Of course, I ought not to--I suppose I ought not to."
"But you haven't said you won't marry me."
"No. But haven't I said enough?"
"No."
"You'd marry me, knowing that I didn't love you?"
She turned her eyes to his. The pathos of that touched her. His senses
swam when she looked at him.
"Yes," he said thickly. "You might not love me now--you would."
There, he spoilt it all again. She was so certain of its
impossibility; he was so confident of his success. With the sentiment
of his humility, the unselfishness of his devotion, he might have
won her even then. The pity in a woman is often minister to her heart.
But pity left her when he made so sure.
"Oh, it's no good talking like this," she said gently; "I know I
shouldn't."
He leant nearer to her, peering into her face. "Well, will you think
about it--will you think it over?" He felt certain that when she
thought of that home of her own, she would be bound to relent--any
woman would. "Let me know some other time.
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