"Yes, you are right," she said. "As you said before, there was no one else—no one."
"It chanced to be so," he said; "and why should I not be allowed to fill up the breach for the time being?"
"Because it is almost absurd," she said, inconsequently. "Don't you see that?"
"No," he answered, obstinately.
Their eyes met, and rested upon each other.
"You don't care?" she said.
"No."
"I knew you wouldn't," she said. "You never care for anything. That is what I like in you—and dread."
"Dread?" he said; and in the instant he saw that she had changed again. Her cheeks had flushed, and there was upon her lips a smile, half-bitter, half-sweet.
"I knew you would not go," she said, "as well as I knew that it was only civil in me to suggest that you should. You are generous enough to care for me in a way I am not quite used to—and you always have your own way. Have it now; have it as long as you are here. Until you go away I shall do everything you tell me to do, and never once oppose you again; and—perhaps I shall enjoy the novelty."