"I--I am grieved," she hesitated. And then, in unconscious self-defence,
"It was so . . . I had not expected it--just then."
"Else you would have prevented?" he asked, bitterly.
"Yes. I think I should have. I did not wish to give you pain--"
"Then you expected it, some time?"
"And feared it. But I had hoped . . . I . . . Vance, I did not come
into the Klondike to get married. I liked you at the beginning, and I
have liked you more and more,--never so much as to-day,--but--"
"But you had never looked upon me in the light of a possible
husband--that is what you are trying to say."
As he spoke, he looked at her side-wise, and sharply; and when her eyes
met his with the same old frankness, the thought of losing her maddened
him.
"But I have," she answered at once. "I have looked upon you in that
light, but somehow it was not convincing. Why, I do not know. There was
so much I found to like in you, so much--"
He tried to stop her with a dissenting gesture, but she went on.
"So much to admire. There was all the warmth of friendship, and closer
friendship,--a growing _camaraderie_, in fact; but nothing more. Though
I did not wish more, I should have welcomed it had it come."
"As one welcomes the unwelcome guest."
"Why won't you help me, Vance, instead of making it harder? It is hard
on you, surely, but do you imagine that I am enjoying it? I feel because
of your pain, and, further, I know when I refuse a dear friend for a
lover the dear friend goes from me.
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