"Look here, Cynthia," he said abruptly, when he met her the next morning—"this won't do! I was to blame; I made a fool of myself last night."
"What—in saying that you loved me?" she inquired.
"Yes—in saying that I loved you. You know very well that I did not intend to say it."
"Does that matter?" she asked, in a low voice. She had taken his hand, and was caressing his strong white fingers tenderly.
"I did it against my conscience."
"Because of that other girl?"
He considered a moment and then said "Yes." But he was not prepared for the steadily penetrating gaze which she immediately turned upon him.
"I don't quite believe that," she said slowly.
"You doubt my word?"
"Yes," said Cynthia, in a dry matter-of-fact way; "I doubt everybody's word. Nobody tells the whole truth in this agreeable world. You forget that I am not a baby—that I have knocked about a good deal and seen the seamy side of life. Perhaps you would like me better if I had not? You would like me to have lived in the country all my life, and to be gentle and innocent and dull?"