She gasped her quivering answer. “Because—because—I am not sure if I have done right in—in letting you make love to me. I have not been sure—all day.”
“You don’t love me?” he questioned.
“I don’t know,” she said. “I can’t—possibly—know yet.”
“But you knew yesterday,” he said.
“Ah, yesterday!” The word came almost with a cry. “I was mad yesterday,” she said.
“Why mad?” he reasoned. “My dear, listen to me! Here we are—far away from everywhere—miles away from civilized society. What does it matter—what can it matter—if we throw aside these idiotic conventions just for one night? You know in your heart that it doesn’t matter one jot.”
“It does matter,” she gasped back painfully, still striving vainly to free the hand he held so closely. “It does matter.”
“That means you don’t trust me,” he said.
“I would if I could,” she made desperate answer. “But—but——”
“But—” he echoed grimly, and let her go.