His hand seemed to plead for hers, and in a moment she laid her own within it. "That's right," he said. "Dinah, will you try and treat me as if I were a friend—just for a few minutes?"
The tone of his voice—like his smile—pierced her with a poignancy that sent the quick tears to her eyes. She forced them back with all her strength.
"I would like to—always," she whispered.
"Thank you," he said. "You are kinder than I deserve. I have done nothing to win your confidence, so it is all the more generous of you to bestow it. On the strength of your generosity I am going to ask you a question which only a friend could ask. Dinah, is there any understanding of any sort—apart from friendship—between you and Scott?"
She started slightly at the question, and in a moment firmly, with a certain authority, his hand closed upon hers.
"You needn't be afraid to speak on Scott's account," he said, with that rather grim humility that seemed so foreign to his proud nature that every sign of it stabbed her afresh. "I am not such a dog in the manger as that and he knows it."
"Oh no!" Dinah said, and her words came with a rush. "But—I told you before, didn't I?—he doesn't care for me like that. He never has—never will."
"I wonder why you say that," Eustace said.
"Because it's true!" With a species of feverish insistence she answered him. "How could I help knowing? Of course I know! Oh, please don't let us talk about it! It—it hurts me."
"I want you to bear with me," he said gently, "just for a few minutes. Dinah, what if you are making a mistake? Mistakes happen, you know. Scott is a shy sort of chap, and immensely reserved. Doesn't it occur to you that he may care for you and yet be afraid—just as you are afraid—to let you know?"