“No,” she answered bluntly. “Love doesn’t come my way. I have no time for it.”
“It seems to me,” he said, “that it comes very much your way... You are turning your shoulder on it now. Come! let me see your face—dear.”
“You must not talk to me like that,” Blanche exclaimed with sudden passion. “You would not dare if your wife were here.”
“My wife!” he echoed, and laughed. “Thank God! she isn’t here. I don’t want any one just now but you,—you, with the sea and the salt wind and that delicious shy look in your eyes... You aren’t angry, really? I so want to enjoy my holiday—here with you. I don’t believe you are angry, but I think you are a little afraid of me.”
She kept her face averted, and gazed steadily out to sea. The waves were sweeping up the wet sands until they almost reached her feet. When they came near enough to force her to move, she determined that she would then return to the hotel. She felt that she could not, while he still held her hand, make an effort of herself to rise.
“Yes, I am afraid,” she muttered. “I am afraid.”
Her lip quivered, and the hand lying unresponsively in his was icy cold. He gripped it hard.
“You need not be afraid,” he said. “I have only a very kindly feeling for you,—a tender feeling. I want to give you pleasure. One day you will understand. I do not wish you to be frightened of me. I want you to trust me. There isn’t the slightest reason why we shouldn’t be the closest of chums.”
“There is every reason,” she answered; “the secrecy of it alone proves that. You dare not give me your friendship openly.”
“But it’s the secrecy which makes it so jolly,” he insisted.