So he came and sat by my side, and directed our course by splashing in one of the sculls, first on one side and then on the other, as we went on talking.
“Why is it,” he asked suddenly, “that a woman never cares for the man who loves her best?”
The question, which was quite new to me, startled me.
“Doesn’t she—ever?” I asked anxiously.
“I—I am afraid not,” said he, in a very low voice, bending his face to mine with a sad look in his eyes that troubled me.
“But how is she to tell?” I asked tremulously.
“I think she can tell best by the look in his eyes when they are bent on her,” he whispered, with a long steady gaze which disconcerted me.
I turned away my head.
“If,” he went on, still in the same soft voice quite close to my ear, “she raises her lips to his and then tries to read in his eyes the emotion he feels for her—”
“But I did,” said I quickly, turning to him with my heart beating fast at the remembrance of Laurence’s first kiss.