"Did you go to—to Pittsburg because—because—I sent you?"
He did not answer; it was too dark to make out his expression.
"I told you," she went on, speaking rapidly, as soldiers advance at a double quick, where if they advanced at ordinary pace they would have time to think, to be afraid, to turn and fly, "I told you to go back to your old haunts and cure yourself of—of your fancy for me.... You went?"
"You could suspect that!"
"If you did, don't lie to me. Say so, and I'll never think of it again. I'd understand. I'd—I'd—forgive."
"There is no woman for me but you," he answered, drawing a step farther from her and putting his hands behind his back. "I went because my aunt telegraphed for me. I came as soon as I could get away."
She clasped her hands and pressed them against her bosom. She leaned toward him, eyes like two of the few large stars in that summer night sky. "I am so glad," she murmured.
"Why did you suspect? How could you? Why did you care?"
"I was—jealous." The confession was almost inaudible.
"Courtney!" His arms impulsively extended.