“But—exactly what——?” he stammered.
“I don’t care if you do know it,” she said.
He began to understand; he turned scarlet, he dared not look at her, and yet couldn’t take his eyes from her dark, desperate little face.
Suddenly she stretched up her arms to him, like a child.
“Oh, Lionel!” she cried, in such a pitiful voice that he couldn’t withstand her. She clung to him, sobbing, trembling, her head buried in his coat.
“Oh, Lionel, I love you so!”
He was immeasurably moved. He put an arm about her and very gently stroked her hair.
“Don’t cry!” he said. “Poor little girl! Don’t cry!”
To save his life he couldn’t have kept the least little trace of condescension out of his tone. He had never been made love to before; he felt that he hadn’t quite realised his own charm. He felt very, very kindly toward poor Minnie, unhappy victim to his fascination. An absolutely hopeless passion; she had to be made to see that, in the most humane way possible. He kept on patting her shoulder.
“Lionel!” she said, looking up again with those really magnificent dark eyes, “Please—you won’t despise me, will you? I can’t—can’t help it! I never—in all my life——!”