“You are sure of that?” he demanded.
“Yes. Yes. That is the pity of it.”
“The pity of it,” he answered soberly. Then again, “The pity of it.”
“Don’t you see,” she hurried on, surer of her ground now, “I ought to love him. There is every reason why I should love him. And yet I don’t. I can’t.”
She uttered the words as though it were a confession from which she expected Barnes to withdraw in horror. Leaning forward he searched her eyes as though once for all to penetrate the hidden gallery of her heart. She closed her eyes, frightened by his earnestness.
“You are sure of that?” he asked again.
She nodded guiltily.
“It’s a pitiful thing to say,” she murmured, “but it’s true.”
She held her breath to see what he would answer to that. For what seemed to her an eternity he didn’t say anything. When he did speak she was almost tempted into hysterical laughter. But she managed to control herself.
“Why, then,” he said, “let’s go up on the hill back of the house.”