“It’s all wrong,” Esmé answered ruefully, and dabbed at her eyes,—“just as wrong as it can be. He’s hurt; and I hate hurting him. I like him so well. But I don’t love him, Rose.”
“You don’t mean that you refused him?”
“Of course I mean that. I couldn’t marry George.”
“Why not?” Rose inquired blankly. When no response came to her question, she caught her sister’s arm and turned her towards her and looked her steadily in the eyes.
“Tell me,” she said quietly, “what there is between you and Paul Hallam? You’ve changed since you knew him. You are more reserved, and you’ve lost your high spirits. Who is Paul Hallam? And why does he write to you? What is he to you?”
“He is just a friend,” Esmé answered.
“You love him,” Rose said. “Do you think I am so dense as not to have discovered that? You can trust me. I’ve not let Jim guess that I know who your correspondent is. I’ve kept your counsel all the time; it’s your affair. But I think you might tell me.”
Esmé made a gesture that was at once a protest and an appeal. She sat straighter, with her hands locked together in her lap, and stared out at the moonlight unseeingly.
“I’d tell you if there was anything to tell,” she said. “There isn’t. There has never been any talk of love between us ever. We are just good friends.”
“But you love him?” Rose persisted.