"Then why—why? Why do you do this?" She drew back, looking in my face in a bewildered way. Then a sudden brightness came into her eyes. "Is it for me? Are you thinking of me?"
"No," said I in stubborn honesty, "I was not thinking of you."
"Don't!" she cried, for she did not believe me. "What do I care? I cared once; I don't care now."
"It wasn't because of you," I repeated obstinately.
"Then tell me, tell me! Because I believe you still love me."
I made shift to tell her, but my stumbling words belittled the great conception: I could not find the phrases that alone might convey the truth to her; but I held on, trying to say something of what I meant.
"I never tried to interfere," she broke in once.
"I made you interfere, I myself," was my lame answer; and the rest I said was as lame.
"I don't understand," she murmured forlornly and petulantly. "Oh, I suppose I see what you mean in a way; but I don't believe it. I don't see why you should feel like that about it. Do men feel like that? Women don't."
"I can't help it," I pleaded, pressing her hand. She drew it away gently.