I said earnestly. The voice on the stage soared heavenward. "I love
you. Will you be my wife?"

Ah, me! where were those drooping eyelids, that flush, that shy, sweet
glance of which I had so often dreamt? Phyllis was frowning.

"Jack, I have been afraid of this," she said. "I am so sorry, but it
cannot be."

"Oh, do not say that now," I cried, crushing my gloves. "Wait awhile;
perhaps you may learn to love me."

"Jack, I have always been frank to you because I like you. Do you
suppose it will take me five years to find out what my heart says to
any man? No. Had I loved you I should not have asked you to wait; I
should have said yes. I do not love you in the way you wish. Indeed,
I like you better than any man I know, but that is all I can offer you.
I should be unkind if I held out any false hopes. I have often asked
myself why I do not love you, but there is something lacking in you,
something I cannot define. Some other woman will find what I have
failed to find in you to love."

I was twisting my gloves out of all recognition. There was a singing
in my ears which did not come from the stage.

"Look at it as I do, Jack. There is a man in this world whom I shall
love, and who will love me. We may never meet. Then he shall be an
ideal to me, and I to him. You believe you love me, but the love you
offer is not complete."