“Come to my house,” he said, “you have never been to see it.”
She shook her head, it was getting dark, and they walked on past his home further into the country. The eve was late but it had come suddenly without the deliberation of sunset or the tenuity of dusk. Each tree was a hatful of the arriving blackness. They stood by a white gate under an elm, but they had little to say to each other.
“Come to my house,” he urged again and again; she shook her head. He was indignant at her distrust of him. Perhaps she was right but he would never forgive her. The sky was now darker than the road; the sighing air was warm, with drifting spots of rain.
“Tell me,” she suddenly said taking his arm, “has anybody else ever loved you like that.”
He prevaricated: “Like what?” He waited a long time for her answer. She gave it steadily.
“Like you want me to love you.”
He, too, hesitated. He kissed her. He wanted to tell her that it was not wise to pry.
“Tell me,” she urged, “tell me.”
“Yes,” he replied. He could not see her plainly in the darkness, but he knew of the tears that fell from her eyes.
“How unreasonable,” he thought, “how stupid!” He tried to tell the truth to her—the truth as he conceived it—about his feelings towards her, and towards those others, and about themselves as he perceived it.