"I really wish, Phyllis, you would not give yourself the habit of contradicting people so rudely. I tell you I had not."
"Well, you were madly in love with one, at all events," I say, viciously. "I could see that by your eyes when I asked you the question."
"If a man commits a folly once in his life, he is not to be eternally condemned for it, I suppose?"
"I never said it was a folly to love any one; I only suggested it was deceitful of you not too have told about it before. I hate secrets of any kind." My companion winces visibly. "There don't be uneasy," I say, loftily. "I have no desire to pry into any of your affairs."
We pace up and down in uncomfortable silence. At length:—-
"I see you are angry, Phyllis," he says.
"Oh, dear, no. Why should such an insignificant thing that does not affect me in any way, make me angry?"
"My darling child, I think you are; and, oh, Phyllis, for what? For a hateful passion that is dead and buried this many a year, and bore no faintest resemblance to the deep true affection I feel for you. Am I the worse in your eyes because I once—when I was a boy—fancied my heart was lost? Be reasonable, and be kind to me. You have been anything but that all this morning."
"Was she dark, or fair?" I ask, in a milder tone, not noticing, however, the hand he holds out to me.
"Dark—abominably dark."