"Mr. Merton! Let me go!"—he had caught her hand, and now she wrenched herself free. Her face was crimson with angry amazement. "Are you mad to speak to me like that! I—I think, please, you had better go."
For a moment they stood facing each other without speaking. Then Merton, as though awakening from a dream, brushed his hand across his eyes.
"Yes; I am mad," he said penitently. "I did not know what I was saying. But I cannot bear to lose you. I love you and I cannot give you up. I will not give you up. You do not love me now, but some day I can win your love. And I am right about this, Janet— Miss Rand, if you would only go away, even for a little while, you would see."
Janet's eyes were on the ground.
"It is quite useless to say anything more," she said monotonously. "I shall never love you."
"But you must!"—he was leaning toward her again earnestly. "I cannot give you up. I love you; you are everything to me. I cannot take that answer."
"You must take it," she answered dully, "because it is the only answer I can ever give you."
"You think so now," he said softly, "but 'ever' is so long a time. Perhaps you are right; perhaps you may never love me, and if that prove so, then I must accept it, but surely I am not to lose your friendship too"—Merton was pleading now. He had gone too far, been too sure of himself, had foolishly given vent to temper; contrition, an appeal to her sympathy was his only hope of reinstating himself in her eyes. "You are angry with me now. But see! I am sincerely, bitterly
