I would have given a good deal to have been able to stop him, but I could not. I was powerless. I was as much embarrassed as the veriest schoolgirl. He went on-- “I want to ask you to be my wife. Miss Ffolliot. As you know,” he added, with a sudden faint flash of humor, “I am not apt with my tongue. I am afraid that I have allowed myself to rust in many ways. But if you will make the best of me you will make me very happy; for I think you know that I love you very much.” “No, no,” I cried softly, “you must not say that. I did not wish any one to say that to me. I am not going to marry any one.” “Why not?” he asked, calmly. “You ought not to ask me,” I answered. “You know my story.” He laughed outright in kindly contempt. Then I knew I had made a great mistake. I should have given him some other reason. This one he would laugh to scorn. And because I had given it first he would deem it the chief one in my thoughts. Before I could stop him he had taken one of my hands and was smoothing it in his great brown palm. Somehow I forgot to draw it away. “Did you ever seriously imagine that any such circumstance could make one iota of difference to any man who loved you?” he asked, in a mild wonder. “It is preposterous.” “It is not preposterous,” I declared. “How can you say so? I am--nobody. I have not even a name.” “Will you please not talk nonsense?” he interrupted, firmly. “We both know quite well in our hearts that such a circumstance as you allude to could not make the slightest difference--if you cared for me as I care for you. All I want to know is--do you care--a little? If you will give me--if you can--just a little share of your love, the rest will come. I should not be afraid to wait. I would take my chance. I have cared for you from the moment you first came here.” I looked up at him with wet eyes, but with a faint smile. “You managed to conceal your sentiments admirably on our first meeting,” I remarked. He laughed. He was getting absolutely confident; and all this time I was drifting with a full knowledge of the shipwreck ahead. “I was brutal,” he said. “Somehow, do you know, you irritated me that morning? You looked so calm and self-possessed, and your very daintiness made me feel rough and coarse. It was like an awakening for me. Yet I loved you all the time.” “I am very sorry,” I said, slowly. He flashed a keen glance upon me. His eyes tried to force mine to meet them. I kept them away. “You must not be sorry,” he said, impetuously; “you must be glad.” But I shook my head. “There is nothing to be glad about,” I cried, with a sob in my throat. “I do--I do--not--” “Go on!” he pressed, relentlessly. “I do not care for you in that way,” he repeated slowly. “Is that true? An hour ago I should have doubted you. But now--look at me and tell me so.” I nerved myself to a desperate effort. I looked up and met his stern, compelling gaze. My cheeks were pale. The words came slowly and with difficulty. But I told my lie well.