paused a moment, as if thinking how to express it, then said simply—"all wrong."
"Come once again," Stransom pleaded.
"Will you give him his candle?" she asked.
He hesitated, but only because it would sound ungracious; not because he had a doubt of his feeling. "I can't do that!" he declared at last.
"Then good-by." And she gave him her hand again.
He had got his dismissal; besides which, in the agitation of every thing that had opened out to him, he felt the need to recover himself as he could only do in solitude. Yet he lingered—lingered to see if she had no compromise to express, no attenuation to propose. But he only met her great lamenting eyes, in which indeed he read that she was as sorry for him as for any one else. This made him say: "At least, at any rate, I may see you here."
"Oh, yes! come if you like. But I don't think it will do."
Stransom looked round the room once more; he felt in truth by no means sure it would do. He felt also stricken and more and more cold, and his chill was like an ague in which he had to make an effort not to shake. "I must try on my side, if you can't try on yours," he dolefully rejoined. She came out with him to the hall and into the doorway, and here he put to her the question that seemed to him the one he could least answer from
