"I do not know," she repeated. "I had never thought about it until a while ago—when you—when your expression—" She dropped her gaze again. "I can't explain."
Coquetry or shyness? He could not tell. "Neva, do you love anyone else?"
"I think—not," replied she, very low.
His eyes were like a tiger peering through a flower-freighted bush. "You love Armstrong," he urged, softly as the purr before the spring.
She was gazing steadily at him now. "We were talking of you and me," rejoined she, her voice clear and positive. "If I loved you, it would not be because I did not love some other man. If I did not love you it would not be because I did love some other."
There might be evasion in that reply, but there could be no lack of sincerity. "I beg your pardon," he apologized. "I forgot. The idea that there could be such a woman as you is very new to me. A few minutes ago, I made a discovery as startling as when I first saw you—there at the Morrises."
"How much I owe you!" she exclaimed, and her whole face lighted up.
But his shadowed; for he remembered that of all the emotions gratitude is least akin to love. "I made a startling discovery," he went on. "I discovered you—a you I had never suspected. And I discovered a me I had never dreamed of. Neva, I love you. I have never loved before."
She grew very pale, and he thought she was trembling. But when, with her returning color, her eyes lifted to his, they were mocking. "Why, your tone was even better than I should have anticipated. You—love?" scoffed she. "Do you think I could study you this long and not find out at least that about you?"
"I love you," he insisted, earnestly enough, though his eyes were echoing her mockery.