Constancy’s heart gave a great throb as the blood rushed to her face, but startled as she was, she held her own.
“Now you are spoiling everything that is so extremely pleasant. You know quite well I never thought of anything of that sort. We have had such a very good time. Now, don’t say any more. I never meant—”
“You must have meant it at Waynflete; you meant me to believe it.”
“Now, you are making a great deal too much of things. Why, you know, I have my work at college—”
“If you care a bit for me, what does that matter?”
Godfrey’s face darkened, and filled with passionate desire.
“You don’t care for me?” he said, hoarsely.
“Well, no,” she said, “not in that way. I’m not sentimental; and you—we—are much too young to think of such nonsense. Let us find the others.”
Godfrey stood in her path for a moment. He was smarting, not only under her refusal, but under her deliberate ignoring of his depth of feeling.
“I am young,” he said, “young enough to wait, and I will make you care. The love I offer you is worth a great deal more than you pretend to think. I’ll—I’ll make you see that yet. Allow me—to show you the way back to the others.”