The quiet life! What had he to do with a quiet life? He had come suddenly into her own chill, somber existence, startling her into youth and gayety—that was why she loved him. A dear, honest, silly boy, to dance with, to be happy with for an evening, but—
“Pem!” he said abruptly. “What’s the matter?”
At his peremptory tone, she found it less difficult to speak. She put her hand on his shoulder and spoke as kindly as she could.
“I’m afraid you’re going ahead a little too fast,” she said. “After all, we’ve only seen each other once before, you know. Doesn’t it seem—”
“Do you mean that you don’t care for me?” he interrupted.
His bluntness disconcerted her.
“No,” she said, with a trace of impatience; “but we don’t really know each other. I think we ought to wait—until we’re sure.”
He was silent for a long time, searching her downcast face.
“You’re sure now, aren’t you?” he asked at last. “All right, Pem! All my fault! I might have known—”
And in the face of his sincerity, his honest and unresentful pain, she could give him no false hope, no false consolation, nothing but the truth revealed to him by her silence.