"And that is the reason why it seems as though we must be more than
friends, though we have known each other so short a time. Perhaps it is
too much to say."
He hesitated, and paused. Unorna breathed hard, not daring to think of
what might be coming next. He talked so calmly, in such an easy tone,
it was impossible that he could be making love. She remembered the
vibrations in his voice when, a month ago, he had told her his story.
She remembered the inflection of the passionate cry he had uttered when
he had seen the shadow of Beatrice stealing between them, she knew the
ring of his speech when he loved, for she had heard it. It was not there
now. And yet, the effort not to believe would have been too great for
her strength.
"Nothing that you could say would be--" she stopped herself--"would pain
me," she added, desperately, in the attempt to complete the sentence.
He looked somewhat surprised, and then smiled.
"No. I shall never say anything, nor do anything, which could give you
pain. What I meant was this. I feel towards you, and with you, as I can
fancy a man might feel to a dear sister. Can you understand that?"
In spite of herself she started. He had but just said that he would
never give her pain. He did not guess what cruel wounds he was
inflicting now.
"You are surprised," he said, with intolerable self-possession. "I
cannot wonder. I remember to have very often thought that there are few
forms of sentimentality more absurd than that which deceives a man into
the idea that he can with impunity play at being a brother to a young
and beautiful woman.
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