“What I have said a thousand times over, and can’t help thinking⁠ ⁠… that I’m not worthy of you. You couldn’t consent to marry me. Think a little. You’ve made a mistake. Think it over thoroughly. You can’t love me.⁠ ⁠… If⁠ ⁠… better say so,” he said, not looking at her. “I shall be wretched. Let people say what they like; anything’s better than misery.⁠ ⁠… Far better now while there’s still time.⁠ ⁠…”

“I don’t understand,” she answered, panic-stricken; “you mean you want to give it up⁠ ⁠… don’t want it?”

“Yes, if you don’t love me.”

“You’re out of your mind!” she cried, turning crimson with vexation. But his face was so piteous, that she restrained her vexation, and flinging some clothes off an armchair, she sat down beside him. “What are you thinking? tell me all.”

“I am thinking you can’t love me. What can you love me for?”