It was partly hatred of the surroundings in which he had found her this morning, partly fear of precipitancy that induced him to act as he was doing. If he spoke too soon he might not only lose her, but lose also—he loved her too sincerely not to dread it—the opportunity of helping her in her distress. But strive strongly as he could he was unable to concentrate his mind upon the work. Every time he looked at her and found her gaze fixed upon him it called for all his powers of control to keep him from throwing discretion aside at once and for all. “You’re watching me,” he said with a touch of impatience that troubled her; “look at the fire, please.” “I’m afraid you bully your sitters,” she replied, doing as he bade her. “I’m _so_ tired of being told to do things. There are such lots of things I should like to do—but nobody ever told me to do any of them.” “What things? May I know?” “You’ll only laugh at me. They’re the kind of things that a woman with nothing a year and not much hope of earning anything much has to do without and had better not even think about.” She spoke slowly, wondering which of her ambitions it would be discreet to name to him. “I should like a lot of friends, clever people who can talk and be jolly and make me jolly too, if I haven’t forgotten how to be; and pretty rooms. I should like to read and to see pictures, and to go to the opera—and I want sympathy—and—and——” As she broke off there was a catch in her voice that routed the remains of his discretion. He threw away his pencil and went quickly over to her, standing beside her chair. “Look up at me,” he said eagerly. “What else do you want? Sympathy—and—what else?” Instead of looking up at him, she turned away, clasping her hands in her lap. “Look up at me,” he repeated. “Why don’t you?” “I can’t.” “Can’t again! Is it—is it for the same reason that you didn’t come here; didn’t write me? Tell me!” “Yes.” “I’d like to guess—but I daren’t, for if my guess was wrong, you’d never forgive me. But—I’ll risk it. I can’t wait any longer. It’s because you care more for me than you care for a mere friend. If that’s it, it’ll be all right and you shall have all your wishes.” He noticed the quick heaving of her bosom and believed that it was love for him that stirred her. “It’s just this: I love you, Marian, and if you’ll trust me I’ll do all I can to make you happy. Let me try.” The revulsion from doubt to certainty was too great for her strength, and she burst into hysterical sobs as she hid her face in her hands. “Marian, Marian,” he said, kneeling beside her, “just tell me—do you love me? Tell me, do you? Do you?” At the moment she almost felt that she did love him. “Tell me—do you?” “You really love me?” she asked, turning her tear-stained face to him. “Really love you?” he exclaimed, seizing her hands and covering them with eager kisses. “What’s the use of telling you? Let me prove it.” CHAPTER VII