He looked at her face, strong with its still unshaken certainty, white, delicate, insistent. Loving it and her, his eyes held hers intently, and he asked, “Did I say I loved you?”
A serene dignity rose to meet his look. “You did not say it, perhaps. You said you did not love me,” she added, with a little smile.
“I was base—and I spoke basely. I said that I loved you enough to kiss you. You may scorn me for it.”
“Ah!” she said quickly, “that was because you did not believe that I loved you! You are exonerated.”
“Not even then. But if you do love me—choose me, as you say; if I do love you—which I have not said—and will not say, will not say even to exculpate my folly of last night—even then, Camelia! I would not marry a woman whom I despise.”
“Despise?” she repeated. Her voice was a toneless echo of his. She weighed the word, and found it heavy, as he saw. Her eyes dwelt on his mutely, and there dawned slowly in them the terror of the eternal negative that rose between her and him.
“You are not good enough for me, Camelia,” said Perior.
“Because of yesterday!” she gasped. “You can’t forgive that!”
“Not only that, Camelia—I do not love you.”
She stood silent, gazing. His heart bled for her. To tell the saving lie, he had faced a jibing self-scorn; yet he continued to face it inflexibly.