She shrank at the blunt words, for they struck her hard. She knew—it was useless to dispute it—that she lacked the strength.
“What is the use of saying that?” she said, protesting almost in spite of herself.
“Because I want you to see reason,” he rejoined, and she knew that he recognized his advantage, and would press it to the utmost. “Why don’t you want to marry me, Circe? You might do very much worse.”
She drew back from him. “Oh, don’t you see that it is out of the question?” she said. “I couldn’t marry you. I don’t love you.”
She saw his face harden. “That is plain speaking,” he said. “But I want to know why. What have I done to forfeit your love?”
“But I never loved you,” she said.
“Are you sure of that?” He spoke insistently. “You kissed me. You let me hold you in my arms.”
She flinched at the recollection, but she compelled herself to face him. “That was a mistake,” she said.
“You are sure of that?” said Rotherby.
“Quite sure,” she answered with simplicity.