This leaves nothing more to be said, so I am silent for a moment or two, and gaze at him with some degree of pride as he stands beside me, with his blue eyes, tender and impassioned—as handsome a man as ever made vain love to a graceless maiden.
Still, admirable as he is, I have no desire for him to grow demonstrative so soon again; therefore continue the conversation hastily.
"Were you never in love before?" I ask, without motive.
It occurs to me that like a flash a faint change crosses his face.
"All men have fancies," he answers, and something tells me he is evading a strict reply.
"I don't mean a fancy: I mean a real attachment. Did you ever ask any woman except me to be your wife?"
"Why?" he asks, with an attempt at laughter that ends in dismal failure beneath my remorseless eyes. "Will you throw me over if I say, 'Yes?'"
"No, of course not. But I think you might have told me before. Here have you been pretending all along you never loved any one but me, and now I discover accidentally that long before you knew me you had broken your heart over dozens of women."
"I had not," angrily. "Why do you misconstrue my words?"
"Oh, of course you had."