"Tell me," he said, with trembling accents,—"I know you have told me already, but tell me once more—precisely what we are to one another at present. It would be so much more satisfactory to my mind," he added, in a deprecatory tone, "to have that clearly understood."
"I thought I had made it quite clear already," she said, with the least suspicion of coldness, "that we can be nothing more to one another than friends."
The relief was almost too much for him. What a dear, good, sensible girl she was! How perfectly she appreciated the facts!
"Friends!" he cried. "Is that all? Do you really mean we are nothing more than friends?"
He caught her hand, in the fervour of his gratitude, and she allowed it to remain in his grasp; which, in the altered state of things, he found rather pleasant than otherwise.
"Ah!" she murmured, "don't ask me for more than I have said—more than I can ever say, perhaps! Let us be content with remaining friends—dear friends, if you like—but no more!"
