She waved him back. "Go—go! I am upset—hysterical. Forget what I said. We are friends again. There is jealousy in friendship, too. Good night."
He hesitated. There she stood, all in that flimsy white—her coils of soft fine hair about her small head—her arms, her throat, her face tantalizingly half revealed in the dimness. "Courtney—do you love me?"
"No—no—not that," answered she, softly, hurriedly, pleadingly. "But I like you—and I'm a woman—and—and that tells the whole story. Good night, Mr. Basil." She held out her hand.
He did not take it. "I dare not touch you—to-night," he said. "I can't be trusted—nor can you."
"No," she assented, letting her hand drop. She drew a long, deep breath, and he also—a draught of that intoxicating air, surcharged with perfume and moonbeams and the freedom of the midnight outdoors.
"We are friends—through and through?"
"Yes." His reply was in the same low, hushed voice as her question.
"That is so much—so much." Their nerves like their voices were tense from the restraint of the passionate emotions damming up higher and higher within.
"And I'll see you at breakfast—and thank you for coming.... Good night, Mr. Basil."
He bared his head. She did not feel like laughing now at his "everlasting good manners," but was shivering, with hot tears in her eyes. He said "Good night, Mrs. Courtney."