... Well, it can never be. I can never
marry you."
She gazed at him wistfully. Cyril sat down by her side, and talked
it all over with her from a hundred points of view. He pressed his
suit hard, till Elma felt, if words could win, her painter would have
won her. But she couldn't yield, she said for HIS sake a thousand
times more than for her own, she must never marry. As the man grew
more earnest the girl in turn grew more frank and confiding. She
could never marry HIM, to be sure, she said fervently, but then
she could never, never, never marry any one else. If she married
at all she would marry Cyril. He took her hand again. Without one
shadow of resistance she let him take it and hold it. Yes, yes, he
might love her, if he liked, no harm at all in that; and SHE, she
would always, always love him. All her life through, she cried,
letting her passionate southern nature get the better of her at
last, she would love him every hour of every day in the year, and
love him only. But she could never marry him. Why, she must never
say. It was no use his trying to read her secret. He must never
find it out; never, never, never. But she, for her part, could
never forget it.
So Cyril, eagerly pressing his suit with every art he knew, was
forced in the end to content himself with that scanty measure.
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