Her face turned white as a Niphetos rose.

"Louis," she said finally and speaking with difficulty, "why do you ask me
this?"

"Why does any man ask a woman to be his wife?"

"Generally because he loves her."

"Well?"

If he had spoken outright, she might have answered him; but the simple
monosyllable, implying a world of restrained avowal, confronted her like a
wall, before which she stood silent.

"Answer me, Ruth."

"If you mean it, Louis, I am very, very sorry."

"Why?"

"Because I can never be your wife."

"Why not?"

"I do not love you--like that."

Silence for half a block, the man's lips pressed hard together under his
mustache, the girl's heart beating suffocatingly. When he spoke, his voice