"He was," said Emily.
"And you tell me so to my face, with such an air as that!"
"What am I to tell you when you ask me? I did not bid him kiss me."
"But afterwards you took his part as his friend."
"Why not? I should lie to you if I pretended that I was angry with him for what he did."
"Perhaps you will tell me that you love him."
"Of course I love him. There are different kinds of love, Ferdinand. There is that which a woman gives to a man when she would fain mate with him. It is the sweetest love of all, if it would only last. And there is another love,—which is not given, but which is won, perhaps through long years, by old friends. I have none older than Arthur Fletcher, and none who are dearer to me."
"And you think it right that he should take you in his arms and kiss you?"
"On such an occasion I could not blame him."
"You were ready enough to receive it, perhaps."