"Well, then," she said, in answer to his words—"then I don't have to walk into the ambush—unless I want to."
"Does that mean that there are conceivable conditions in which you might want to?"
She turned completely round in her chair. Both hands, with fingers interlaced, rested on the table as she looked up at him.
"I shall have to let you find your own reply to that."
"But you know he's in love with you."
"I know he was in love with me once. I've no absolute reason to think that he is so still."
"But supposing he was? Would it make any difference to you?"
"Would it make any difference to you?"
"It would make the difference—"
He stopped in confusion. While he was not clear as to what he was going to say, he was startled by the possibilities before him. The one thing plain was that her question, simple as it seemed, gave an entirely new turn to the conversation. It called on him to take the lead, and put him, neatly and skilfully, in the one place of all others which—had he descried it in advance—he would have been eager to avoid. Would it make any difference to him? What difference could it make? What difference must it make?