Mary had a vague idea that he
meant to interest her in a "sad case," as he had done once or twice
before, when he thought she needed to be "taken out of herself." She
expected to hear a tale of some poor girl who had "lost all," and must
be redeemed from disaster by a helping hand lest worse things happen;
and as he was evidently determined not to tell his story then, Mary
waited without impatience.
They were lunching early, and had finished before many people began to
arrive dustily in carriages and automobiles. Hannaford had ordered his
taxi at two o'clock, and there was no hurry. He told the Italian
musicians to play softly, some simple old airs that he loved. Then, when
Mary sat staring dreamily into the water, far down through clear green
depths, he put his elbows on the table, his chin in his hands, and
leaned across to her.
"Of course you know," he said, "that I love you. Don't speak yet--and
don't look at me, please. Keep your eyes on the water. I told you I had
something to ask; but it's not for your love I'm asking. I know that no
woman, not even with your kind and gentle heart, could love a man like
me. But something has hurt you. I told you once before that I didn't
want to hear what it was. Only I'm afraid you're not happy, and
perhaps--if the hurt was in your heart--you may never be happy again in
exactly the old way, as a young girl is when she is full of hope. We
feel alike about a lot of things, you and I. We are good friends. At
least, you look on me as your friend.
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