Anne smiled, for a woman who talks of heartlessness does so to be contradicted.
“Well, it appears to me that you put forth little on behalf of your friend.”
“One doesn’t praise the people one loves.” He dared not look at her, but her nearness thrilled him, and he had not thought to be thus together again in the mysterious dusk of a northern night. She was silent for a time; when she spoke it was to say slowly—
“If you tell me that you honestly wish it, I may—perhaps—”
But he had started up impatiently.
“Good heavens, am I your guide? I have nothing to do with it. I wash my hands of all!” He added with a strong effort, “Let me say that you could not choose a better fellow, and that he loves you with his whole heart.”
“How big is that?” Anne demanded, in a mocking tone.
The question jarred. He loved, but did not like her so well as before. “You, at any rate, have no reason to doubt its generosity,” he answered gravely. “And one thing I will ask of you—do not cause unnecessary pain.”
“The situation is none of my creating. Give me credit at least for having done my utmost to avoid painful positions. You, or fate, have baffled me, yet now you refuse to interfere, and I do not pretend to answer for myself.”
She pushed away the plate of strawberries, and leaned back among the rugs and furs, her face pale in the half light, her voice cold. Wareham was still standing, when Hugh came back and glanced from one to the other.