"I'm sorry," he said gravely. "But why?"
She looked up at him reproachfully.
"Don't you—know? Ah, Drake, can't you guess? Don't—don't look at me like that and smile. It is not like you to be so—so hard."
"We men are hard or soft as you women make us, Luce," he said quietly. "Remember that I have been through the mill. I was not hard or cruel—once."
It was an unwise thing to say. Never, if you have done with a woman, or she has done with you, talk sentiment, says Rousseau. It was unwise, for it let Luce in.
"I know! Yes, it was all my fault. Drake, do you think I don't know that? Do you think that I don't tell myself so every hour of the day, every hour at night, when I lay awake thinking of—of the past?"
"The past is buried, Luce," he said, with a short laugh. "Don't let us dig it up again. After all, you acted wisely——"
"No; I acted like a fool!" she broke in; and she meant it. "If I had only listened to the cry of my own heart—if I had only refused to obey father, and—and stuck to you! But, Drake, though you think me heartless, and—and sneer——"
"I didn't mean to sneer, Luce," he said. "Forgive me if I did so unintentionally. I quite understood your difficulty, and, as I told you the day we parted, I—well, I made allowances for you. You did what most women of our set would have done."
"Would they? But perhaps they really are heartless, while I——Drake, you can't tell what I have suffered; how—how terribly I have missed you! I—yes, I will tell you the truth. Do you know, Drake, that I had made a vow that whenever we met, whether it was soon, or not for years, I would tell you all. Yes—though, like a man, you should despise me for it!"