She tried to speak several times, before she finally succeeded in saying:
“It's my fault. I mustn't shirk.”
I studied her, but I couldn't puzzle her out.
“I've been thinking all along that you were simple and transparent,” I said. “Now, I see you are a mystery. What are you hiding from me?”
Her smile was almost coquettish as she replied:
“When a woman makes a mystery of herself to a man, it's for the man's good.”
I took her hand—almost timidly.
“Anita,” I said, “do you still—dislike me?”
“I do not—and shall not—love you,” she answered. “But you are—”
“More endurable?” I suggested, as she hesitated.