"Just at first," whispered Dinah. "Oh, don't be angry! Please don't be angry! You—you weren't in earnest either just at first."
He considered the matter in silence for a few moments. Then half-quizzically, "I don't see that that is any reason for throwing me over now," he said. "If you don't love me to-day, you will to-morrow."
She shook her head.
"Quite sure?" he said.
"Quite," she answered faintly.
His hand was still upon her head, and it remained there. He held her closely pressed to him.
For a space again he was silent, his dark face bent over her, his lips actually touching her hair. Of what was passing in his mind she had no notion, and she dared not lift her head to look. She dreaded each moment a return of that tornado-like passion that had so often appalled her. But it did not come. His arms held her indeed, but without violence, and in his stillness there was no tension to denote its presence.
He spoke at length, almost whispering. "Dinah, who is the lucky fellow?
Tell me!"
She started away from him. She almost cried out in her dismay. But he stopped her. He took her face between his hands with an insistence that would not be denied. He looked closely, searchingly, into her eyes.
"Is it Scott?" he said.