He looked at her with eyes that were as honest as an open sky. "You don't love your husband, nor he you," he said. "If you did, you'd not see as little of each other as you do."
"Shirley, it's cowardly to say those things," she began angrily.
"Oh, I'd say 'em to him, if it wasn't that I'm afraid you'd have to suffer for it. You needn't get mad. I've been so damn miserable this past week, not seeing you, that I don't care what happens to me. I know why you don't come over any more. He's shut you up here. I saw it in his face that night."
"It was about time he stopped me, I see," said she quickly. "Evidently he understood better than I did. But you mustn't go away thinking I'm obeying a jailer. Do you suppose I'd stay here at the request of a man unless I cared for him?"
"Certainly," replied he. "A right sort woman'll put up with most anything to avoid a row. You needn't try to fool me, Courtney. I know—everyone knows—the truth."
"The truth!" cried Courtney. "How dare you sit there insulting me!"
"Now, Courtney!" begged he.
"Go join your sister and take her back without coming here."
She felt she ought to leave him; but her hungry heart would not let her go. She lingered, looking at him angrily, watching the utter love in his countenance—and enjoying it. He slowly dropped from the veranda rail and faced her. His look was that same mingling of gentle and fierce qualities that makes a bulldog's face fascinating. "If I've said anything I shouldn't, I beg your pardon," said he. "But I stick to my proposition. You can take it or leave it—now, or next year—or whenever you like. It's you or nobody for me." He put out his hand.
She clasped her hands behind her. But she had to lower her head that he might not see—"and misunderstand"—her swimming eyes, her trembling lip.