He kissed her once and drew back.
"I never meant to come home this way, Betty," he said, in a voice that
trembled from its new humility.
"My dear, my dear, I have grown to think that any way is a good way," she
murmured, her eyes on the blackened pile that had once been Chericoke.
"It is not right," he went on; "it is not fair. You cannot marry me--you
must not."
Again the humour quivered on the girl's lips.
"I don't like to seem too urgent," she returned, "but will you tell me
why?"
"Why?" he repeated bitterly. "There are a hundred why's if you want them,
and each one sufficient in itself. I am a beggar, a failure, a wreck, a
broken-down soldier from the ranks. Do you think if it were anything less
than pure madness on your part that I should stand here a moment and talk
like this?--but because I am in love with you, Betty, it doesn't follow
that I'm an utter ass."
"That's flattering," responded Betty, "but it doesn't explain just what I
want to know. Look me straight in the eyes--no evading now--and answer what
I ask. Do you mean that we are to be neighbours and nothing more? Do you
mean that we are to shake hands when we meet and drop them afterward? Do
you mean that we are to stand alone together as we are standing now--that
you are never to take me in your arms again? Do you mean this, my dear?"
"I mean--just that," he answered between his teeth.
For a moment Betty looked at him with a laugh of disbelief.
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