She shook her head. “No,” she answered, “and I’m not hungry.” But she did not come farther into the room, and, though she smiled waveringly, Stacey saw the expression of pain—or perhaps fear—in her eyes.
“Catherine,” he began in a low voice, after a moment, “why is it so hard—and dangerous—to be frank?”
“Ought it to be either?” she replied gently. She looked at him steadily as she spoke, but the expression on her face was odd and troubled. There was compassion in it, though; he felt that strongly. Of course! A generous emotion would always be dominant in Catherine.
He came a little nearer to her. “Catherine,” he said, “I have not meant ever to—” then broke off. It was worse to say things than to leave them unspoken, and she would understand them anyway. He tried desperately to call the whole subject off. “Oh,” he remarked, with a positively sepulchral gaiety, “Christmas is too emotional! We’re good friends, aren’t we? and that’s all that matters.”
But she continued to gaze at him in that same odd manner. The very pose of her body made her seem like a creature at bay.
And suddenly Stacey’s thoughts were swept away like so much rubbish by a wave of sure emotion. He took a step toward Catherine, stretching out his hands impulsively, and all at once she was in his arms, trembling and weeping, her lips raised to his.
“Ah, Stacey, didn’t you know I loved you?” she murmured presently. “Your father knew.”
“Wh-when?”
“Since the evening you quarreled.”
“Oh,” Stacey cried, “was it—for love that you defended me?”