He thought a moment. Then he shook his head.
“I don’t know,” he answered. “I was thinking only of you.”
“But I—I don’t matter.”
“One thing matters very much for you,” he said.
“And that?” she asked anxiously.
“That you are now sure of yourself; that you are sure you do not really love him.”
She started, but she did not reply. The stark sunlight which had been pounding hotly at the earth all day was now fading. The birds were getting sleepy.
It was at about this time of day that Barnes had first met her. Then she had been only a strikingly beautiful picture, and now—what a deal more she was to him now! Until this moment his love for her had seemed so big that it had been almost impersonal. Circumstances had forced him to regard it so. It had been almost like some of the big fine dreams he had dreamed about his Art. Now, in a second, with that question, he felt her for the first time as a warm, palpitating, human being. As an artist he had admired her first, then as a mere man, then as a lover; but now, as he waited for her reply, it was as Richard Barnes that he loved her. For the first time he had to wrestle hard with himself for control. He hungered to feel her in his arms, to brush with his lips the scarlet in her cheeks, which was as rose upon ivory. He yearned to mingle kisses with the black of her hair, which had gold in it. He gathered himself together and repeated his question,
“You are sure of that?” he demanded.
There must have been some new quality to his voice, because she shrank back from him.