she could not look at his face while these things were weighing
out their balance in her mind. It seemed hard enough to be compelled
to listen to the sound of his voice; the weak, uncertain quality that
it possessed, that faint suggestion of commonness which did not
exactly admit of dropped aitches, but rang jarringly in her ears.

"I'm listening," she said rigidly. Her eyes were fixed without motion
on the quiet water.

"Well, I want you to marry me," he exclaimed impulsively.

She said nothing. She waited.

"After next month, I shall have two hundred pounds a year. We could
be very comfortable on that--couldn't we?"

"Do you think so?" she asked.

"Well, I'll bet you a shilling there are a good many men in
London--married--who are comfortable enough on less. Besides, next
year it'll be two hundred and twenty."

"And you want me to marry you?"

"Yes. I'm offering you a comfortable home of your own. No more pigging
it like this in lodgings. You'll have your own house to look
after--your own drawing-room. I don't want to boast about it, but
don't you think it's a good thing for you?" He felt himself it was
a big thing he was offering--and so it was--the biggest he had. "What
I mean to say," he continued, "I'm a gentleman, you're earning your
own living. I'm going to make you your own mistress--"

"But I don't love you," she said quietly, overlooking with generosity
his insinuations about the position she held.

He gazed at her in amazement. "Why not?" he asked.

"Why not? Oh, why should you ask me a hard question like that?"

"'Cause I want to know. 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