"You say all this now, and yet to-morrow,"—bending to look at her in the ungenerous light,—"to-morrow you may tell me again that you 'hate me.'"
"If I do,"—quickly,—"you must not believe me. I have a wretched temper, and I lost it completely when I said that the other night. I did not mean it. I do not hate you, Guy: you know that, do you not?" Her voice falls a little, trembles, and softens. It is the first time she has ever called him by his Christian name without its prefix, and Guy's pulses begin to throb a little wildly.
"If you do not hate me, what then?" he asks.
"I like you."
"Only that?" rather unsteadily.
"To like honestly is perhaps best of all."
"It may be, but it does not satisfy me. One likes many people."
Lilian is silent. She is almost positive now that he loves her, and while longing to hear him say so, shrinks from saying what will surely bring forth the avowal. And yet if she now answers him coldly, carelessly——
"If I say I am fond of you," she says, in a tone so low, so nervous, as to be almost unheard, "will that do?"
The carriage some time since has turned in the avenue gate.