"It's a temptation," she said, absently. She saw herself trying for independence and failing—losing heart, self-respect—growing cynical through hardship—marrying Basil to escape— Just there, she suddenly surprised her elusive real self, saw deep into the inmost workings of her own mind—saw that she did not care for Basil Gallatin—that she had really been pretending to herself that she loved him because he was the alternative, the refuge, should her try for independence fail!
"I'll tell you what let's do," she heard him saying. "Let's get married. Then you can take that place, whatever it is. With your future secure no matter what happened, you'd work better and would be much more likely to succeed."
The appeal of this subtle proposal awakened her to her peril. It must be now or never; she must speak the truth now, or lose the courage and the strength to speak it. "Basil," she said abruptly, "I don't love you."
He stared.
"I've been lying to myself and to you. I don't love you."
"That's not true!"
"I never did love you," she replied—for, with the one truth out, the other forged to the front and made its amazing self visible. "No—I never did love you." How plain it all was, now! How strange that she should for even an infatuated moment have believed this was the man she needed, the man who needed her—not words alone, and kisses and thrills, but real need—for mind and heart and body—all that the three have to give and long to give and to receive.
He stood before her, looking down in graciously smiling remonstrance. "That's a little too much," he said tenderly. "You can't have forgotten all we've been to each other—those hours of happiness—those moments of ecstasy—my love—my Courtney——"
There was color in her cheeks, an answering tenderness in the eyes that lifted to his. "No, I've not forgotten. And as I had to learn and as there's no other way for woman or man to learn but experience, I don't regret. But we were both in love with love—not with each other. And what's more, we never could be." Now that she had flung away pretense, its veil of illusion over her sight dropped; she was seeing him as she looked at him—not his qualities that repelled, not his qualities that attracted, but the whole man—was seeing him as we see only those toward whom are amiably indifferent. She was thinking, "What a nice, well-bred man he is, but how small." Not bad, not grossly sensual, not mean—not at all mean, but the reverse. Just small.
He began to recover from the stupefaction of the convincing tones of her denial of love. He was hastily donning the costume of pose that is correct for such occasions. She beamed genially upon him and said, "Now, don't work yourself up, my dear Basil. Sit down over there, and let's talk quite quietly—and naturally."