She laid a pleading hand upon his arm. Yes, she had changed; she could not deny it. But she could not tell him why.
“I think we have been—rather headlong,” was all she found to say.
And at that he laughed, easily, cajoling her. “Well, we’ve gone too far to pull up now. Perhaps it will be a lesson to you next time, what? But no more of your will-o’-the-wisp performances on this occasion, O lady mine! We’ll play the game, and as we have begun, so we will go on.”
He kissed her again, and his kiss was almost a challenge.
“Don’t you realize that I love you?” he said. “Do you think I am going to lie awake all night for you, and then not hold you in my arms when we meet?”
He laughed as he uttered the question, but it had a passionate ring. His lean, sunburnt face had a drawn look that oddly touched her pity. She was even moved to compunction.
“I am sorry,” she said. “I thought—perhaps—it was just—a passing fancy.”
“My fancies don’t pass like that,” said Montague.
He spoke almost moodily, as if she had hurt him, and again her heart smote her.
“I am beginning to understand,” she said. “But—you must give me time. We hardly know each other yet.”