CHAPTER XXVI
I TALK WITH JEAN
FOR a moment her intense surprise robbed her of all power of speech, her round throat swelling, one hand pressed upon her heart. So still was everything I could hear a bird singing without, and the rustle of wind through the leaves.
"You have learned to love me—me?" she faltered at last, incredulously. "I did not expect to hear you say that, Lieutenant King."
"Yet I have said it," I insisted, "because it is the truth; and it is time, is it not, that the truth should be known between us?"
Her head drooped upon her hands, her arm supported by the dresser, and she remained silent, her slight form trembling perceptibly.
"Do you blame me for what occurred that night?"
She uplifted her eyes quickly, looking frankly into my face.
"You perhaps did the most natural thing, although I sincerely wish it had never occurred. No, I do not blame you; I—I have never felt in that way toward you. It is strange, is it not?" straightening up, and now looking me again frankly in the eyes. "There is certainly
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