“That you—you loved me. It was the brute in you that spoke—not the man, the beast that kissed— Oh!” She brushed the back of her hand across her eyes. “It was not you! The memory of it will never go.”
He hung his head in shame.
“No, no, don’t!” he muttered. “You’re crucifying me!”
“If you had not said that——”
“It was monstrous. It was madness, but it was sweet.”
“Love is not brutal—does not shame—nor frighten,” she said slowly. “You had been so—so clean—so calm——”
“It was Arcadia, Jane,” he whispered, “your Arcadia and mine. It was the love in me that spoke, whatever I said—the love of a man, or of a beast, if you like. But it spoke truly. There were no conventions there but those of the forest, no laws but those of the heart. I had known you less than a week, and I had known you always. And you—up there—you loved me. Yes, it’s true. Do you think I couldn’t read in your eyes?”
“No, no,” she protested. “It isn’t true. I—I didn’t love you—I don’t——”
He had captured one of her hands and was leaning toward her, his voice close at her ear, vibrant with emotion.