. She had known, yet now she is trying to
pretend that she did not know.

"Because I ask you. You see I put the poorest reason at first, and
because you say I am not hateful to you, and because----"

"Well?"

"Because, when a man's last chance of happiness lies in the balance, he
will throw his very soul into the weighing of it--and knowing this, you
may have pity on me."

As though pressed down by some insupportable weight, the girl rises and
makes a little curious gesture as if to free herself from it. Her face,
still pale, betrays an inward struggle. After all, why cannot she give
herself to him? Why can't she love him? He loves her; love, as some poor
fool says, begets love.

And he is honest. Yes, honest! A pang shoots through her breast.
That, when all is told, is the principal thing. He is not
uncertain--untrustworthy--double-faced, as _some_ men are. Again that
cruel pain contracts her heart. To be able to believe in a person, to be
able to trust implicitly in each lightest word, to read the real meaning
in every sentence, to see the truth shining in the clear eyes, this is
to know peace and happiness; and yet--

"You know all," says she, looking up at him, her eyes compressed, her
brow frowning; "I am uncertain of myself, nothing seems sure to me, but
if you wish it----"

"Wish it!" clasping her hands closer.

"There is this to be said, then. I will promise to answer you this day
twelve-month."

"Twelve months," says he, with consternation; his grasp on her hands
loosens.

"If the prospect frightens or displeases you, there is nothing more to
be said," rejoins she coldly. It is she who is calm and composed, he is
nervous and anxious.

"But a whole year!"

"That is nothing," says she, releasing her hands, with a little
determined show of strength, from his. "It is for you to decide. I don't
care!"

Perhaps she hardly grasps the cruelty that lies in this half-impatient
speech, until she sees Dysart's face flush painfully.

"You need not have said that," says he. "I know it. I am nothing to you
really." He pauses, and then says again in a low tone, "Nothing."

"Oh, you mustn't feel so much!" cries she, as if tortured. "It is folly
to feel at all in this world. What's the good of it. And to feel about
me, I am not worth it. If you would only bear that in mind, it might
help you."

"If I bore that in mind I should not want to make you my wife!" returns
he steadily, gravely. "Think as you will