“You—might call it that.”
She drew a little away from him now and made him sit down beside her on the divan.
“I think,” she said gently, holding his hand against her cheek, “that men can hardly ever think in facts; they must think in patterns; and anything that will not fit into a pattern they find wrong. But I want to tell you the truth. I have always loved you, Stacey, always! It was not disloyalty. I am sure Phil knew. I loved you and him. It was different. I can’t make you understand.”
Stacey, very shaken and confused, and not understanding anything save (humbly) that this was giving on a scale beyond what was credible, drew her to him and kissed her hot face.
“Oh, Stacey,” she murmured, “I feel so—immodest!”
“Aha!” he interrupted, laughing unsteadily, “now who’s thinking not like an individual but like the whole female sex?” And at this she, too, laughed a little.
They sat there, close together, scarcely speaking. But it came over Stacey in a rush that in his love for Catherine there was a touch of what he had felt for Marian and something more—far more! Truth, fact. It was complete. This was reality. There was nothing left out.
“Catherine,” he cried, “you are not only a grown woman; you are a little girl, too. And so I’m not afraid of you any longer—I always was, a little, you know. Now I’m not.”
“That’s odd,” she said shyly, “because I—have also been afraid of you, a little.”
“But really? On account of my temper, I suppose. You’re right. I’ve a rotten temper,” he said remorsefully.