"That," he answered, "might be misleading. He has shown me so much kindness. Yet I think—I am sure—that I liked him from the first moment I saw him."
She nodded.
"I like him too. I cannot help it. Yet one can be with him, can live in the same house for weeks, even months, and remain an utter stranger to him. He has self-repression which is marvellous—never at fault—never a joint loose. One wonders so much what lies beyond. One would like to know."
"Is it wise?" he asked. "After all, is it our concern?
"Not ours. But if you were a woman would you be content to take him on trust?"
"It would depend upon my own feelings," he answered, hesitatingly.
"Whether you cared for him?"
"Yes!"
She beat the floor with her foot.
"You are wrong," she said, "I am sure that you are wrong. To care for one is to wish ever to believe the best of them. It is better to keep apart for ever than to run any risks. Supposing that unknown past was of evil, and one discovered it. To care for him would only make the suffering keener."