"I could not like you better than as you are," he said, passing one arm round her.
"That's right. You do love me?"
"Yes, Cynthia."
"That is not a very warm assurance. Do you feel so coldly towards me this morning?"
"My dearest—no!"
"That's better. Dear Hubert——may I call you Hubert?"—he answered with a little pressure of his arm—"if you really care for me, I can say what I was going to say; but, if you don't—if that was how you made a fool of yourself by saying so when you did not mean it—then tell me, and I shall know whether to speak or to hold my tongue."
She spoke forcibly, with a directness and simplicity which enchanted Hubert in spite of himself. He assured her that he loved her from the bottom of his heart, that she might speak freely, and that he would be guided, if possible, by what she said—he knew that she was good and wise and generous. And then he kissed her once more on the lips, and she believed his words. She began to speak, blushing a little as she did so.
"I only want to understand. You are not married, Hubert?"
"My darling—no!"
"And you said last night that you were not engaged?"