"Love is not like Justice, with a pair of scales to weigh this or that. I do not ask _why_ I love you; the knowledge is all I need. And you are _not_ selfish, inconstant, and God knows that you are worth loving. As I said, I ask for nothing." "On the other hand," she continued, as if she had not heard his interpolation, "I know you thoroughly. I have had evidence of your courage, your steadfastness, your unselfishness. Do not misunderstand me. I am proud that you love me. This love of yours, which asks for no reward, only the right to confess, ought to make any good woman happy, whether she loved or not. And you would have gone away without telling me, even!" "Yes." He dug into the earth with his riding-boot. If only she knew how she was crucifying him! "Why were you going away without telling me?" He was dumb. Her arms and eyes, uplifted, appealed to heaven. "What shall I say? How shall I make him understand?" she murmured. "You love me, and you ask for nothing? Is it because in spirit my father has committed a crime?"--growing tall and darting a proud glance at him. "Good heaven, do not believe that!" he cried, "What _am_ I to believe?"--tapping the ground with her boot so that the spur jingled. A pause. "Mr. Warburton, do you know what a woman loves in a man? I will tell you the secret. She loves courage, constancy, and honor, purpose that surmounts obstacles; she loves pursuit; she loves the hour of surrender. Every woman builds a castle of romance and waits for Prince Charming to enter, and once he does, there must be a game of hide and seek. Perhaps I have built my castle of romance, too. I wait for Prince Charming, and--a man comes, dressed as a groom. There has been a game of hide and seek, but somehow he has tripped. Will you not ask me if I love you?" "No, no! I understand. I do not want your gratitude. You are meeting generosity with generosity. I do not want your gratitude."--brokenly. "I want your love, every thought of your mind, every beat of your heart. Can you give me these, honestly?" She drew off a glove. Her hand became lost in her bosom. When she drew it forth she extended it, palm upward. Upon it lay a faded, withered rose. Once more she turned her face away. He was at her side, and the hand and rose were crushed between his two hands. "Can you give what I ask? Your love, your thoughts, your heart-beats?" It was her turn to remain dumb. "Can you?" He drew her toward him perhaps roughly, being unconscious of his strength and the nervous energy which the sight of the rose had called into being. "Can we give those things which are--already--given?" Only Warburton and the angels, or rather the angels and Warburton, to get at the chronological order of things, heard her, so low had grown her voice.