"A moment ago you didn't call it folly."
"Then I was doubly a fool," she answered with the first touch of bitterness. "For folly it is, deep and black. I am not—nay, was I ever?—one to ramble in green fields all day and go home to a cottage."
"Never," said I. "Nor will be, save for the love of a man you love. Save for that, what woman has been? But for that, how many!"
"Why, very few," said she with a gentle little laugh. "And of that few—I am not one. Nay, nor do I—am I cruel?—nor do I love you, Simon."
"You swear it?"
"But a little—as a friend, an old friend."
"And a dear one?"
"One dear for a certain pleasant folly that he has."
"You'll come?"
"No."