Elfrida's
wide-eyed gaze wandered appreciatively over the dusky
interior, which for the man beside her barely existed.
"What a lot of English character there is here," she said
softly. "How dignified it is, and conscientious, and
restrained!"
It was as if she had not spoken. Cardiff stared with knit
brows into the insoluble problem she had presented to
him a moment longer. "_How_ are we so different, Elfrida?"
he broke out passionately. "You are a woman and I am a
man; the world has dealt with us, educated us, differently,
and I am older than I dare say I ought to be to hope for
your love. But these are not differences that count,
whatever their results may be. It seems to me trivial to
speak of such things in this connection, but we like very
much the same books, the same people. I grant you I don't
know anything about pictures; but surely," he pleaded,
"these are not the things that cut a man off from the
happiness of a lifetime!"
"I'm afraid--" she began, and then she broke off suddenly.
"I _am_ sorry--sorrier than I have ever been before, I
think. I should have liked so well to keep your friendship;
it is the most chivalrous I know. But if you feel like--like
this about it I suppose I must not.
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