"In some ways," she murmured.
"Every way," he insisted. "You aren't handicapped by caring for any other man."
"How do you know?" she asked.
"Just a hunch," Fyfe smiled. "If you did, he'd have beaten me to the rescue long ago—if he were the sort of man you could care for."
"No," she admitted. "There isn't any other man, but there might be. Think how terrible it would be if it happened—afterward."
Fyfe shrugged his shoulders.
"Sufficient unto the day," he said. "There is no string on either of us just now. We start even. That's good enough. Will you?"
"You have me at a disadvantage," she whispered. "You offer me a lot that I want, everything but a feeling I've somehow always believed ought to exist, ought to be mutual. Part of me wants to shut my eyes and jump. Part of me wants to hang back. I can't stand this thing I've got into and see no way of getting out of. Yet I dread starting a new train of wretchedness. I'm afraid—whichever way I turn."
Fyfe considered this a moment.
"Well," he said finally, "that's a rather unfortunate attitude. But I'm going into it with my eyes open. I know what I want. You'll be making a sort of experiment. Still, I advise you to make it. I think you'll be the better for making it. Come on. Say yes."