Page:E Nesbit - The Literary Sense.djvu/192

180 Never mind modesty and propriety. Tom could never love me like this. He's a hero—my hero."

In the silence that followed her confession he seemed to hear almost the very words of her thought.

He hung his head and stood before her in the deep humility of a chidden child.

"I am sorry," he said. "I am ashamed. Forgive me. I couldn't help it. No one could. Good-bye. Try to forgive me—"

He turned to go, but she caught him by the arms. He had been almost sure she would.

"You mustn't go," she said. "Oh—I am sorry for Tom—but it's not the same for him. There are lots of people he'd like just as well—but you—"

"Hush!" he said gently, "don't think of me. I shall be all right. I shall get over it."

His sad, set smile assured her that he never would—never, in this world or the next.

Her eyes were shining with the stress of the scene: his with the charm of it.

"You are so strong, so brave, so good," she made herself say. "I can't let you go.