“I don't know.”
“You mean it's just a whim?”
“I don't know,” she repeated. Her voice was low and troubled and honest, and she kept her clear eyes upon his.
“Will you tell me something?”
“Almost anything.”
“Have you ever told any man you loved him?”
And at that, though she laughed, she looked a little contemptuous. “No,” she said. “And I don't think I ever shall tell any man that—or ever know what it means. I'm in earnest, Mr. Sheridan.”
“Then you—you've just been flirting with me!” Poor Jim looked both furious and crestfallen.
“Not one bit!” she cried. “Not one word! Not one syllable! I've meant every single thing!”
“I don't—”