“Dear,” he said desperately, “won’t you try to forgive me? It seemed right. How could I sacrifice you to a penniless”
“I’d enough for both—or thought I had,” she said obstinately.
“Ah, but don’t you see”
“I see that you cared more for not being thought mercenary by Stephen than”
“Forgive me!” he pleaded; “take me back.”
“Oh no”—she tossed her bright head—“Stephen might think me mercenary; I couldn’t bear that. You see you are richer than I am now. How much did you tell me you made a year by your writing? How can I sacrifice you to a penniless”
“Rosamund, do you mean it?”
“I do mean it. And, besides”
“What?”
“I don’t love you any more.” The bright head drooped and turned away.
“I have killed your love. I don’t wonder. Forgive me for bothering you. Good-bye!”
“What are you going to do?” she asked suddenly.
“Oh, don’t be afraid, nothing desperate. Only work hard and try to forgive you.”
“Forgive me? You have nothing to forgive.”
