It was again the question of an infatuated fool, and put in an infatuated fool's way. For, if she were a "deep one," how could he hope to get the truth? But her answer reassured him. "No," she said—her simple, direct negation that had a convincing power he had never seen equaled.
"If I ever knew of another man's touching you," he said, "I'd feel like strangling him." He laughed at himself. "Not that I should strangle him. That sort of thing isn't done any more. But I'd do something devilish."
"But I haven't promised not to kiss anyone else," she said. "Why should I? I don't love you."
He looked at her strangely. "But you're going to love me," he said.
She shrank within herself again. She looked at him with uneasy eyes. "You won't kiss me any more until I tell you that I do love you?" she asked with the gravity and pathos and helplessness of a child.
"Don't you want to learn to love me?—to learn to love?"
She was silent—a silence that maddened him.
"Don't be afraid to speak," he said irritably. "What are you thinking?"
"That I don't want you to kiss me—and that I do want father to be happy."
Was this guile? Was it innocence? He put his arms round her. "Look at me," he said.