What did it matter if he waited years merely for her tardy forgiveness, the whole of his life belonged to her! His tenderness and patience should be infinite; and the time must surely come when the last vestige of her anger would have faded from her heart, and they could begin anew. He told himself that this was the one great emotion he should know. But for her, he lived in a world of dull commonplace; and she, whether she were aware of it or not, without intending it, had glorified his life. In realizing what his love meant to him, he, for the first time fully realized what her love for Stephen Landray might still mean to her. He felt endless compassion for her. How she must have suffered, and she had always shown such courage. It made her all the more desirable that her own constancy had been so fine and true. “You must forgive me!” he said. “Think that I forgot myself, and forget if you can what I have said!” But she had no forgiveness for him; little things she might easily overlook, or they passed her by without being even noticed, but this was a hurt that only time could heal. Her pride was a stubborn thing, and it was her pride, her very self-respect, that he had hurt. He glanced into her face and saw how far he was from forgiveness. In the telling of his love he had roused her anger to no purpose; he had destroyed the very thing that had been her stay through all these years, and there was nothing left her! He had cheapened each sacrifice he had made; for in her eyes he had performed each service, each generous act, with the idea that it would help to win him her love; he felt he could not argue with her, the justice or the injustice of her feeling for him, there was something fixed and final in this attitude of hers. “You must try and forgive me!” he repeated. “I shall try,” she said. “Which means you will fail!” he retorted bitterly. “Am I so unjust?” she demanded haughtily. “I wish you might see it and feel it for one moment, as I see it and feel it!” he said, with hoarse emotion. “It might move you to mercy!” “You are asking for friendship now?” she said. “Yes”—he hesitated—“yes, friendship.” “Will you be content with that?” “Can it ever be friendship after this? Will it not be less—or more?” “Less,” she said. “I suppose so,” he admitted dully. “It's a small matter to you; but an hour ago I would have said it was a matter of life and death to me! You suffered—you loved!” “You have no right to speak of it!” she cried. “Because I have trusted you—” She broke off abruptly. “And I suppose you think I have taken advantage of your trust! I did not know until now—that is, I could not have imagined that a man could so offend a woman merely by telling her that he loved her.” She did not answer him; and after a moment's silence he went on. “Can you tell me how out of the wreck I seem to have made, I can preserve some portion of your esteem? In Heaven's name, let it be friendship if it is nothing more!”