“I’m—glad,” he said, slowly.
“So am I,” she said, breathlessly.
The car started, but where it went or how it went neither of them cared. For minutes they sat silent, each drinking in the knowledge of the other’s presence. It was a heady beverage.
“Hildegarde ...” he began, presently.
She turned her eyes upon him. His face was an accusation; there was yearning there, grief, something else that she could not define, but it hurt her worst of all.
“Yes,” she said.
“You told me you loved me,” he said.
“Don’t ...” she cried.
“You told me you loved me,” he repeated, harshly. “Was it true?”
She would not answer, would not look at him now, but drew away from him fearfully. He took her hand, not gently, and drew her toward him. “Look at me,” he commanded. “I want to see your eyes.... When I see your eyes I—” He was going to say he could not believe, but stopped himself. It would be turning the knife around in her wound.... “Were you telling the truth?”