It was he, now, who put out his hand and touched a fold of her gown which was near him, as she had touched his arm. The tears came back to Katharine’s eyes suddenly and unexpectedly, but they did not burn as they had burned before.
“I’ve never loved any one else,” he continued presently. “Yes—and I know you’ve not. But I’m older, and I know men who have been in love—what they call being in love—twice and three times at my age. I’ve not. I’ve never cared for any one but you, and I don’t want to. I’ve been a failure in a good many ways, but I shan’t be in that one way. I shall always love you—just the same.”
Katharine caught happily at the three little words.
“Just the same—as though all this had never happened, Jack?” she asked, bending towards him, and looking into his brown eyes. “If you’ll say that again, dear, I shall be quite happy.”
“Yes—in a way—just the same,” answered Ralston, as though weighing his words.
Katharine’s face fell.
“There’s a reservation, dear—I knew there would be,” she said, with a sigh.
“No,” answered Ralston. “Only I didn’t want to say more than just what I meant. I’ve been angry myself—I was angry at dinner—perhaps I was angry still when I sat down here. I don’t know. I didn’t mean to be. It’s hard to say exactly what I do mean. I love you—just the same as ever. Only we’ve both been very angry and shall never forget that we have been, though we may wonder some day why we were. Do you understand? It’s not very clear, but I’m not good at talking.”
“Yes.” Katharine’s face grew brighter again. “Yes,” she repeated, a moment later; “it’s what I feel—only I wish that you might not feel it, because it’s all my fault—all of it. And yet—oh, Jack! It seems to me that I never loved you as I do now—somehow, you seem dearer to me since I’ve hurt you, and you’ve forgiven me—but I wasn’t to say that!”