"I've always wanted it, though I didn't realize," replied he. "How else
could I be sure of you? Besides--" He flushed, added hurriedly, almost
in an undertone--"I owe it to you."
She seated herself deliberately.
After he had waited in vain for her to speak, he went on: "If you
married me, I know you'd play square. I could trust you absolutely. I
don't know--can't find out much about you--but at least I know that."
"But I don't love you," said she.
"You needn't remind me of it," rejoined he curtly.
"I don't think so--so poorly of you as I used to," she went on. "I
understand a lot of things better than I did. But I don't love you, and
I feel that I never could."
"I'll risk that," said Norman. Through his clinched teeth, "I've got to
risk it."
"I'd be marrying you because I don't feel able to--to make my own way."
"That's the reason most girls have for marrying," said he. "Love comes
afterward--if it comes. And it's the more likely to come for the girl
not having faked the man and herself beforehand."
She glanced at the clock. He frowned. She started up. "You _must_ go," she
said.
"What is your answer?"
"Oh, I couldn't decide so quickly. I must think."
"You mean you must see your young man again--see whether there isn't
some way of working it out with him."
"That, too," replied she simply. "But--it's nearly four o'clock----"
"I'll come back at seven for my answer."
"No, I'll write you to-night."
"I must know at once. This suspense has got to end. It unfits me for
everything."
"I'll--I'll decide--to-night," she said, with a queer catch in her
voice. "You'll get the letter in the morning mail."
"Very well." And he gave her his club address.
She opened the door in her impatience to be rid of him. He went with a
hasty "Good-by" which she echoed as she closed the door.
When he left the house he saw standing on the curb before it a tall,
good-looking young man--with a frank amiable face. He hesitated,
glowering at the young man's profile. Then he went his way, suffocating
with jealous anger, depressed, despondent, fit for nothing but to drink
and to brood in fatuous futility.