He knew that the fact which their words veiled was now the first thing in their mutual consciousness. He spoke the truth in saying, "No, I never wanted to," but this was only a mechanical truth, and he knew it. He had an impulse to put the burden of the situation on her, and press her to say why she thought he wished to do so; but his next emotion was shame for this impulse. A thousand times, in these reveries in which he had imagined meeting her, he had told her first of all how he had overheard her talking in the room next his own in the hotel, and of the power her voice had instantly and lastingly had upon him. But now, with a sense spiritualized by her presence, he perceived that this, if it was not unworthy, was secondary, and that the right to say it was not yet established. There was something that must come before this,--something that could alone justify him in any further step. If she could answer him first as he wished, then he might open his whole heart to her, at whatever cost; he was not greatly to blame, if he did not realize that the cost could not be wholly his, as he asked, remotely enough from her question, "After I wrote that I was coming up here, and you did not answer me, did you think I was coming?" She did not answer, and he felt that he had been seeking a mean advantage. He went on: "If you didn't expect it, if you never thought that I was coming, there's no need for me to tell you anything else." Her face turned towards him a very little, but not so much as even to get a sidelong glimpse of him; it was as if it were drawn by a magnetic attraction; and she said, "I didn't know but you would come." "Then I will tell you why I came--the only thing that gave me the right to come against your will, if it _was_ against it. I came to ask you to marry me. Will you?" She now turned and looked fully at him, though he was aware of being a mere blur in her near-sighted vision. "Do you mean to ask it now?" "Yes." "And have you wished to ask it ever since you first saw me?" He tried to say that he had, but he could not; he could only say, "I wish to ask it now more than ever." She shook her head slowly. "I'm not sure how you want me to answer you." "Not sure?" "No. I'm afraid I might disappoint you again." He could not make out whether she was laughing at him. He sat, not knowing what to say, and he blurted out, "Do you mean that you won't?" "I shouldn't want you to make another mistake." "I don't know what you"--he was going to say "mean," but he substituted--"wish. If you wish for more time, I can wait as long as you choose." "No, I might wish for time, if there was anything more. But if there's nothing else you have to tell me--then, no, I cannot marry you." Langbourne rose, feeling justly punished, somehow, but bewildered as much as humbled, and stood stupidly unable to go. "I don't know what you could expect me to say after you've refused me--" "Oh, I don't expect anything."