Her little face grew hard and defiant. She was not to be deceived by this wounded, unhappy tone. "Well—what?" she asked, guardedly, looking up at him.
He stooped. His face was curiously convulsed. It frightened her. "Do you love him?"
Instinctively she took an attitude of defense, rising and pushing back her chair, to shield herself behind it. "And what if I do?"
"Then, Rosie, you should have told me."
Again the heart=broken cry seemed to her a bit of trickery to get her confidence. "Told you? How could I tell you? What should I tell you for?"
"How long have you loved him?"
Her face was set. The shifting opal lights in her eyes were the fires of her will. She would speak. She would hide nothing. Let the responsibility be on Claude. Her avowal was like that of a calamity or a crime. "I've loved him ever since I knew him."
"And how long is that?"
"It will be five months the day after to-morrow."
"Tell me, Rosie. How did it come about?"