“Oh; so you are properly ashamed, are you? I think you should be, Richard Page!”
“No, not ashamed: but I shall be sore-hearted if I have to go away and leave you angry at me. But are you angry, Beatrix?”
“Desperately.”
“Would anything I could say—”
“Nothing, sir.”
“Not if I tell you that—” I paused on the brink of the horridest chasm that ever opened before a halting lover in this world of lovers’ pitfalls. If I confessed that the kiss saved my life—as well it may have—how could I make her understand—but I could never make her understand. She would hold me as the paltriest coward that ever breathed if I should so much as hint at the thing which had given me the kissing courage at that perilous moment.
“What could you tell me, if you were so disposed, Mr. Page?” she asked, and now I thought the sarcasm was only half-hearted.
“I could tell you what I have told you a hundred times before, Beatrix; that I love you: that I am never near you without having to fight most desperately for even decent self-control.”
“But I do not love you, Dick Page.”
I jerked my chair around to face her.