She shook her head.
“I’ve told you,” she said stubbornly, “all there is to tell. If you’ve inveigled me here in the hope of getting anything more out of me than I’ve told you, you have miscalculated, and you have wasted your time.”
“No, I haven’t,” he said softly. “I’m enjoying myself very much. I can talk to you, I can look at you, and I—can ask you things.”
She did not ask him what things, but became quiet and subdued, and occupied with the landscape. He was seeing her in new circumstances, in a new light, and the change from talkativeness and brilliancy to a singular tranquillity interested and delighted him.
“And you can disbelieve the answers,” she said softly.
“I don’t know. It doesn’t follow, as I’ve told you, that because I don’t quite understand one answer you’ve given me that I might never understand you.”
“I said believe, not understand.”
“Same thing. If I were to ask you whether you’d ever cared for anybody, I might perhaps believe your answer, if you would give me one?” he suggested diffidently.
“Well, I haven’t. I haven’t had time to think about that sort of thing,” said Miss Davison, in a matter-of-fact tone.
“Really? Never?”