She nodded, and it half amused, half hurt him to note that she was physically on guard, lest he should seize her unawares.
His smile broadened. "You needn't be alarmed," said he, clasping his hands behind his back. "I've no intention of doing it."
She was smiling now, also. "Well," she said. "What next?"
"Why are you afraid?"
"I am not afraid." She clasped her hands behind her, like his, looked at him with laughing, level eyes; for he and she were of the same height. "Not a bit."
"Why were you afraid?" he corrected. "You never were before."
She seemed to reflect. "No, I never was," she admitted. Her gaze dropped and her color came.
"Neva," he said gently, "do you love me?"
She lifted her eyes, studied him with the characteristic half closing of the lids that made her gaze so intense and so alluring. He could not decide whether that gaze was coquetry, as he hoped, or simply sincere inquiry, as he feared. "I do not know," she said. "I admire and respect you above all men."
He laughed, carefully concealing how her words had stung him. "Admire! Respect!" He made a mocking little bow. "I thank you, madam. But—in old age—after death—is soon enough for that cold grandeur."