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Her lips trembled a little.
'I don't think, Aubrey, I can make you happy! I've been feeling
often--that I don't seem to make much difference to you. And now
this is very serious--giving up Mannering. _You_ may mind it much
more than you think. And if--'
'If what? Go on!'
She raised her eyes again and looked at him straight.
'If I can't make up?'
The colour flooded into his face, as though, far within, something
stirred 'like a guilty thing surprised.' But he said tenderly:
'I don't care _that_, Beryl'--he snapped his fingers--'for Mannering
in comparison with you.'
Her breath fluttered a little, but she went on resolutely. 'But I
must say it--I must tell you what I feel. It seems the right
opportunity. So often, Aubrey, I don't seem to understand you! I say
the wrong thing. I'm not clever. I haven't any deep thoughts--like
you or Arthur. It would be terrible if you married me, and then--I
felt you were disappointed.'
He moved a little away from her and, propping his chin on his hands,
looked gravely through the thinning branches of the wood.


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