She turned coldly away and walked on, I following. “I think I’ll not stop for tea,” she said. “Will you hail the first taxi we meet?”
“You are offended—Mary?” I said. What a blundering fool love does make of a man!—unless he makes a fool of it.
She shook her head. “No—not offended. But when a subject comes up about which we may not talk there is nothing to do but drop it.”
In my desperation I reached for the right chord and struck it. “Do you know,” said I, “why I left the yacht abruptly?”
She halted, gave me a swift, frightened glance. The color flooded her face, then fled.
“Yes—that was why,” said I. “And—I’ve come as soon as I could.”
“Oh, why, why didn’t you tell me?” cried she. Then, before I could answer, “I don’t mean that. I understand.” Then, with a wild look around, “What am I saying?”
“I’ve come for you, Mary,” I went on. “And you are not going to rush into folly a second time—a greater folly. For—you do not love him—and you will care for me. You are right, we can’t discuss him—you and him. But we can, and must, discuss you and me.”
“I shall not see you again,” said she, looking at me with tranquil eyes that would have daunted me had I not known her so well, understood her so well—which is only another way of saying, had I not loved her so well.
“Why have you been seeing me day after day, when you knew that I loved you——”