“Surely,” he answered with great earnestness. “There is no woman to whom I am bound by any kind of obligation.”
A long wave rolled up, broke, and retreated, whilst Rhoda stood in silent uncertainty.
“I must put the question in another way. During the past month—the past three months—have you made profession of love—have you even pretended love—to any woman?”
“To no woman whatever,” he answered firmly.
“That satisfies me.”
“If I knew what is in your mind!” exclaimed Everard, laughing. “What sort of life have you imagined for me? Is this the result of Mary’s talk?”
“Not immediately.”
“Still, she planted the suspicion. Believe me, you have been altogether mistaken. I never was the kind of man Mary thought me. Some day you shall understand more about it—in the meantime my word must be enough. I have no thought of love for any woman but you. Did I frighten you with those joking confessions in my letters? I wrote them purposely—as you must have seen. The mean, paltry jealousies of women such as one meets every day are so hateful to me. They argue such a lack of brains. If I were so unfortunate as to love a woman who looked sour when I praised a beautiful face, I would snap the bond between us like a bit of thread. But you are not one of those poor creatures.”
He looked at her with some gravity.
“Should you think me a poor creature if I resented any kind of unfaithfulness?—whether love, in any noble sense, had part in it or not?”