"Please, please don't hold my hand," I said. "It--it makes me not able to
behave nicely."
"Darling," he whispered, "then it shows that you like me, and I sha'n't
let go until you tell me every little bit."
"Oh, I can't, I can't!" I felt too tortured, and yet, waves of joy were
rushing over me. That _is_ a word, "darling," for giving feelings down the
back.
"Evangeline," he said, quite sternly, "will you answer this question,
then: Do you like me, or do you hate me? Because, as you must know very
well, I love you."
Oh, the wild joy of hearing him say that! What in the world did anything
else matter? For a moment there was a singing in my ears, and I forgot
everything but our two selves. Then the picture of Christopher waiting for
me, with his cold cynic's face and eyes blazing with passion, rushed into
my vision, and the duke's critical, suspicious, disapproving scrutiny,
and I felt as if a cry of pain, like a wounded animal, escaped me.
"Darling, darling, what is it? Did I hurt your dear little hand?" Lord
Robert exclaimed, tenderly.
"No," I whispered, brokenly; "but I cannot listen to you. I am going back
to Claridge's now, and I am going to marry Mr. Carruthers."
He dropped my hand as if it stung him.
"Good God! Then it is true," was all he said.
In fear I glanced at him, his face looked gray in the quickly gathering
mist.
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