"I'm very fond of you, and I think you're very fond of me."
"You don't think about it—you know I am."
"Then why did you say you would not come and see me?"
"I did not say so. But something tells me that if I did go away with you it would not succeed."
"Why do you think that?"
"I don't know. Something whispers that it wouldn't succeed. All my people were good people—my mother, my grandmother, my aunts. I never had a relative against whom anything could be said, so I don't know why I am what I am. For I'm only half good. It is you who make me bad, Owen; it isn't nice of you." She flung her arms about him, and then recoiled from him in a sudden revulsion of feeling.
"When you go away I shall be miserable; I shall repent of all this ... I'm horrid." She covered her face in her hands. "I didn't know I was like this."
A moment after she reached out her hand to him saying—
"You're not angry with me? I can't help it if I'm like this. I should like to go and see you; it would be so much to me. But I must not. But why mustn't I?"
"I know no reason, except that you don't care for me."