“The accused! Good heavens, do you suppose!” he began passionately, then by a great effort stopped. Anne was looking at him through half-closed eyes.
“However,” she went on, as if he had not spoken, “I will let you hear her explanation. She thinks I am a flirt.”
“She is a detestable woman.”
“Oh, no; and I believe her to be right. I told you just now that I had no sense of colour; well, I have a worse confession to make. I have no heart.”
“One is as true as the other,” Wareham protested stoutly. She shook her head.
“Possibly it may come. But as yet I am without it.”
“You forget. You gave me another reason.”
“That I did not care for him sufficiently. It surprised you. It might be a proof that what I tell you is no more than the truth. For it would be difficult to conceive any one more lovable.”
Wareham’s own heart agreed, but refused to accept the conclusion.
“Really,” she said, “it was this charm of his which opened my eyes to my own want. I meant to marry, and so long as I did not dislike the man, would not trouble myself to think I need give him more. Suddenly I discovered I liked him too much to let him find himself in that position, and released him. It was the best act in my life, and it has alienated the friends who were most worth keeping.”