Page:The White Peacock, Lawrence, 1911.djvu/307

Rh “Do you mean not yet?” he asked.

“Yes—and, perhaps,—perhaps never.”

“Ha,” he laughed, sinking down again. “I must he getting like myself again, if you begin to tease me.”

“But,” she said, struggling valiantly, “I’m not sure I ought to marry you.”

He laughed again, though a little apprehensively.

“Are you afraid I shall always be weak in my noddle?” he asked. “But you wait a month.”

“No, that doesn’t bother me——”

“Oh, doesn’t it!”

“Silly boy—no, it’s myself.”

“I’m sure I’ve made no complaint about you.”

“Not likely—but I wish you’d let me go.”

“I’m a strong man to hold you, aren’t I? Look at my muscular paw!“—he held out his hands, frail and white with sickness.

“You know you hold me—and I want you to let me go. I don’t want to——”

“To what?”

“To get married at all—let me be, let me go.”

“What for?”

“Oh—for my sake.”

“You mean you don’t love me?”

“Love—love—I don’t know anything about it. But I can’t—we can’t be—don’t you see—oh, what do they say,—flesh of one flesh.”

“Why?” he whispered, like a child that is told some tale of mystery.

She looked at him, as he lay propped upon his elbow, turning towards hers his white face of fear and perplexity, like a child that cannot understand,