With his averted face toward the window, in a forced and level voice, not daring to meet her eyes, he told her almost all there was to tell about Loraine Haswell. The new spark of manhood she had awakened in him made him silent on one point. He said nothing of his own doubts; his own wonder whether after all he loved or wanted Loraine. Just now he fancied he wanted Marcia Terroll.
When the recital reached its end he stood for a space gazing into the fog which seemed an emblem of his own life. He was waiting for her to speak, but the silence remained unbroken. At last he turned and saw her sitting there no longer tearful, only a little stunned.
"I couldn't lie to you," he protested in a hurried utterance as he came over and knelt on the floor at her side. "Not to you.... Of course, you know that I love you very dearly as a man loves his rarest friends.... You know what our comradeship means to me—"
With an impulsive forward sweep of her hands she interrupted him and her voice was burdened with deep pain and heart-ache.
"Don't!" she pleaded, and the monosyllable was like a cry. "Oh, don't!" Then after a little while she went on slowly: "You are a romanticist, Paul, and a dreamer. Some day you will wake up. We all do."
"It was better to tell you, dear, wasn't it? It would have been unfair—"
She bowed her head wearily as though realizing the futility of expecting him to understand. "Yes, I suppose so, only—"
He waited a moment, then prompted:
"Only what?"
"Only perhaps a stronger man would have told me before he—kissed me."