me, and you've kissed me. Thank you." She paused and added, "Have I grown so much older in a day?"
"It is not that. It's"
"It is that," she said. She turned away and seated herself on the sofa, where she sat with her eyes fixed on the ground. Then she gave a short laugh. "I knew it would come," she said, "but this is—is rather sudden."
I ran to her and threw myself on my knees by her. I lifted my arm and put it round her neck and drew her face down to mine.
"No, no, no," I whispered passionately. "It's not that."
She let me kiss her now many times, and presently returned my kisses. Her breath caught in gasps, and she clutched my hand imploringly.
"You do love me?" she murmured.
"Yes, yes."
"Then why—why? Why do you do this?" She drew back, looking in my face in a bewildered way. Then a sudden brightness came into her eyes. "Is it for me? Are you thinking of me?"
"No," said I in stubborn honesty, "I was not thinking of you."
"Don't!" she cried, for she did not believe me. "What do I care? I cared once; I don't care now."
"It wasn't because of you," I repeated obstinately.
"Then tell me, tell me! Because I believe you still love me."
I made shift to tell her, but my stumbling words belittled the great conception: I could not find the phrases that alone might convey the truth to her;
