“Then there is something,” he said eagerly. “I have offended you. Edie, dear, pray tell me.”
He took hold of her unwilling hand and, in spite of her effort, drew it through his arm, and led her toward the short passage in which Brettison’s door was placed.
“You don’t answer me,” he whispered as they reached the spot where she and her cousin had waited only a short time before, and his love for her speaking now warmly in the tone of his voice. “Edie, dearest, I would suffer anything sooner than give you pain. Forgive me if I have done anything; forgive me, too, for speaking out so plainly at a time like this, but I do love you, darling, indeed—indeed.”
As he spoke he raised her hand passionately, and yet reverently, to his lips, and the next moment he would have pressed it warmly, but the kiss was upon vacancy, for the hand was sharply snatched away.
“It is all false!” cried Edie in a low, angry voice. “I do not believe a word.”
“Edie!” he whispered reproachfully.
“Do you think I am blind? Do you think because I am so young that I am a child?”
“I—I don’t know what you mean,” he faltered, utterly taken aback by the silent vehemence of the passion displayed by the quivering little lady before him.
“It is not true. You are deceiving me. You, too, whom I did think honest and true. But you are all alike, and I was mad to come—no, I was not, for I’m very glad I did, if it was only to learn that you are as full of duplicity as your friend.”
“Am I? Well, I suppose so, Edie, if you think so,” he said dismally. “But we came here to try and get out of a fog—I’ve got farther in. I didn’t know I was such a bad one, though, and you might be fair to me and explain. Come,” he cried, changing his manner, and speaking out in a frank, manly way, “this is not like you, little woman. If it’s to tease me and keep me at a distance because we are alone here in the dark it is not needed, Edie, for God knows that if a man ever loved a woman, I do you.”