“Even so; that I should love you was inevitable, you might have foreseen that! How could I meet you day after day, be near you, be your friend, and not come to love you! I only wonder that I was able to hold my peace so long as I did!” “Then I was not at fault, none of the blame was mine?” “None,” he assured her; but he was white to the lips. “Then if I am not at fault I shall never forgive you!” There was a ring of triumph in her tone. She had wished his own words to vindicate her. “Perhaps you may. It may even come to forgiveness,” he said. “No, I shall never forget the advantage you have taken!” “I have paid you the highest compliment I could,” he said steadily. She made him a scornful gesture, and though his cheeks burnt, he went on. “That I have loved you, that I do love you, is my right; my own unworthiness, of which you cannot be more aware than I am, has nothing to do with it.” Understanding her as he did, he fully realized her sense of outraged decency; he could think of it as nothing else. If he had loved her less, if he had parted from any portion of his high esteem and reverence for her, he would have urged his suit, he would have appealed to her pity, her generosity, and above all he would have urged the depth and constancy of his devotion; but he felt he could make no such appeal to her; the most he could hope was that when her anger against him had somewhat abated, she would see that he had taken no advantage of her; and that she would respect him for the restraint he had until now put upon himself. He knew her better than to suppose she would ever feel flattered by the declaration he had made. Whatever her secret vanities were, and he supposed they existed, they were not of that strictly feminine character that could pardon what she had first deemed an offence, because later she found this very offence included a compliment; and he was quite certain she would never look back to that moment with any feeling even remotely approaching satisfaction. The most he dared to hope for was that they might gradually return to their former relation, where he could begin again with tireless patience to recover the ground he had foolishly lost, since he had no thought of giving her up; that never occurred to him as possible. She had become as necessary to him as the very air he breathed. He knew that for the past years he had been living for these interviews with her, which had meant so much to him, while they had meant nothing to her. At the thought that they might be denied him in the future he turned sick at heart; the possibilities of such a thing seemed to sweep away the whole purpose of existence, to rob him in a twinkling of all that made his life worth while. He was sick with the dull ache that filled his heart. It was more than the mental appreciation of an impending catastrophe; it was a definite physical anguish. But the hope that had meant so much to him in the past, came to his rescue again.