“To what I said to you last night. You can’t have forgotten so soon. If I were a stranger, if I were the most contemptible wretch living, if you had always treated me with open dislike, you could not have misunderstood or forgotten what I said to you last night.”
Annie turned and looked up at him, pale under her rouge.
“I have not forgotten, nor understood—at least, I think not. I thought you too would have understood—that I tried to avoid you, because I feared, I knew my answer, if I must answer, would give you pain.”
“Then you don’t like me?”
A ray of vehement passion flashed from her dark eyes.
“Don’t torture me! You know I like you; but I can’t—I can’t do more! I don’t know whether I have done wrong—I never meant to lead you to feel like this. How could I go on avoiding you when I was lonely and you were kind?”
“Why should you avoid me? Why should you not love me?”
She did not answer; but there was no mistaking the misery on her face for coquetry or caprice.
“Are you bound by some other engagement, Annie?”
She shuddered. Before he could speak again, she turned quickly to him.