"Three months?" she queried.
The light little head was tilted sideways in old fascinating way. It was not so dark but he might have seen it had he not been staring at the stars. He might even have noticed, had he looked closer, how wide her eyes were, and how unsteady the small mouth.
"Why three months?" he said.
"Wasn't it three months ago we were at Bramley Park?" she went on reflectively. "Can you still remember what you told me there?"
"Was it different from what I'd told you everywhere?" he parried.
"No—o!" she murmured, with a long wavering breath; "not until to-night. You said you could never, while I lived, think of marrying another woman."
"Yes," he assented; "I remember. We were looking down at the moonlight on the lake."
"We were," she said. "And you had your hand on mine. You put it there; you put it there as you spoke. Were you thinking how wonderfully easy it was to fool a woman?"
"I've never fooled you, nor tried to fool you," he answered quietly. "I've cared for you too much for that. No, not in the common way; but because you've always been such an honest and good friend to me. Some women insist on being fooled; they make any sort of truth to them impossible. You made a lie."
"So it seems now," she said wistfully.