"I never told you an untruth in my life," he protested angrily.
"Doesn't a man always tell them to a woman?" she enquired.
For an instant he hesitated; then he spoke daringly, spurred on by her indifferent aspect. "He doesn't when—he loves her."
"When he loves her more than ever," she returned quietly, as if his remark held for her merely an historic interest, "Perry Bridewell loves Gerty, I suppose, and yet he lies to her every day he lives."
"That's because she likes it," he commented, with a return of raillery.
"She doesn't like it—no woman does. As for me I want the truth even if it kills me."
"It wouldn't kill you," he answered, and the tenderness in his voice made her feel suddenly that she had never known what love could be, "it would give you life." Then his tone changed quickly and the old pleasant humour leaped to his eyes, "and whatever comes I promise never to lie to you," he added.
She shook her head. "I didn't ask it," she rejoined, with a sharp breath.
"If you had," he laughed, "I wouldn't have promised. That's a part of the general contrariness of men—they like to give what they are not asked for."
"Well, I'll never ask anything of you," she said, smiling.