She grew more and more painfully crimson, and wished she could cry.

A well worked-up passion of tears would have come in very usefully just then, but somehow she could not turn the passion on.

And a horrid sense of incompetency and failure began to steal over her--an awful foreboding of defeat.

What could she do to seize the slippery opportunity and grasp the doubtful prize?
How could she land the big golden fish which she foolishly fancied she had at the end of her line?
Never had she felt so helpless or so angry.
"Why ?" he repeated--"Why would you marry me?
Not for love certainly.
Even if you believed in love--which you say you do not,--you could not at your age love a man at mine.

That would be impossible and unnatural.
I am old enough to be your grandfather.