"Is that papa?"
"I don't see that it matters who it is. The only thing of importance is whether you are or not."
"If you mean that as a question, I shall have to let you answer it yourself."
"Would you tell me if—if you were?"
"What would be the use of telling you a thing that would make you unhappy and that I couldn't help?"
"Am I to understand, then, that you are half in love with him?"
She continued the effort to write.
"I think I've a right to press that question," he resumed. "Am I, or am I not, to understand—"
She turned slowly. Her face was flushed, her eyes were misty.
"You may understand this," she said, keeping her voice as much under control as possible, "you may understand this, that I don't know whom I'm in love with, or whether or not I'm in love with any one. That's the best I can say. I'm sorry, Rupert—but I don't think it's altogether my fault. Papa's troubles seem to have transported me into a world where they neither marry nor are given in marriage—where the whole subject is alien to—"