"I am going to make an appeal to your generosity," I said.
"What has happened? Who was outside the house? What is the meaning of all the mystery? I was thinking myself mad up there and came down to see."
"It is good that you care so much. Two days ago you would have given a shrug of your shoulders, a toss of the head, a lift of the eyebrows, and with an easy smiling 'It doesn't matter,' have left any one else to do the thinking. Don't let your cigar go out; it probably helps you." He was holding a long black cigar such as he had smoked so furiously in the carriage.
"You have given me plenty to make me think," he answered. "But what has happened?"
"I told you—I am going to appeal to your generosity. Not to ask me to tell you everything, but just to accept my explanation."
"I was afraid it was something else."
"What?" I asked not thinking, and so falling into the trap.
"That you should keep what you have not yet returned; that little link with the past—the ribbon favour, Christabel." His eyes were very gentle as he spoke my name.
For a moment I wavered, lowering my head; then taking courage to face what must be faced by us both, I lifted my eyes and, firm in both look and voice, answered him—"It must not be a link. It is no more than a relic. There can be no connecting link with that old time for us two."
"You think that? Perhaps; but I don't;" and he shook his head. "You are very strong, Christabel; but not strong enough for that—not strong enough to change me, at least. It's the only thing in life I care about."