“Oh, Frances, do you?” I repeated. “I never meant to ask you. I never meant that you should know. I am so much older, and so--so unworthy--it has seemed so hopeless and ridiculous. But I love you, Frances, I have loved you from the very beginning, although at first I didn't realize it. I--If you do--if you can--I--I--” I faltered, hesitated, and stopped. She did not answer for a moment, a long, long moment. Then: “Mr. Knowles,” she said, “you surprise me. I didn't suspect--I didn't think--” I sighed. I had had my answer. Of course it was idiotic. I should have known; I did know. “I see,” I said. “I understand. Forgive me, please. I was a fool to even think of such a thing. I didn't think it. I didn't dare until--until just now. Then I was told--your cousin said--I might have known he didn't mean what he said. But he said it and--and--” “What did he say? Mr. Cripps, do you mean? What did he say?” “He said--he said you--you cared for me--in that way. Of course you don't--you can't. I know better. But for the moment I dared to hope. I was crazy, of course. Forgive me, Frances.” She looked up and then down again. “There is nothing to forgive,” she said. “Yes, there is. There is a great deal. An old--” “Hush! hush, please. Don't speak like that. I--I thank you. I--you mustn't suppose I am not grateful. I know you pity me. I know how generous you are. But your pity--” “It isn't pity. I should pity myself, if that were all. I love you Frances, and I shall always love you. I am not ashamed of it. I shall have that love to comfort me till I die. I am ashamed of having told you, of troubling you again, that is all.” I was turning away, but I heard her step beside me and felt her hand upon my sleeve. I turned back again. She was looking me full in the face now and her eyes were shining. “What Mr. Cripps said was true,” she said. I could not believe it. I did not believe it even then. “True!” I repeated. “No, no! You don't mean--” “I do mean it. I told him that I loved you.” I don't know what more she would have said. I did not wait to hear. She was in my arms at last and all England was whirling about me like a top. “But you can't!” I found myself saying over and over. I must have said other things before, but I don't remember them. “You can't! it is impossible. You! marry an old fossil like me! Oh, Frances, are you sure? Are you sure?” “Yes, Kent,” softly, “I am sure.” “But you can't love me. You are sure that your--You have no reason to be grateful to me, but you have said you were, you know. You are sure you are not doing this because--” “I am sure. It is not because I am grateful.” “But, my dear--think! Think what it means, I am--” “I know what you are,” tenderly. “No one knows as well. But, Kent--Kent, are YOU sure? It isn't pity for me?”