"Yes—very. But a little roughness is a relief after too much polish, isn't it?"
"Yes, of course," he admitted. "But you wouldn't confess even if you had been put out. And that's like you, too." He looked at her with an expression in his eyes, the meaning of which there could be no doubt.
"Let's go out on the porch," she said abruptly. "It's so stuffy in here."
The moon was full and it shone over a picture of loveliness. Below them, as they sat on the stone balustrade of the terrace, stretched Judith's immaculate gardens, redolent with the soft perfume of sweet pea and mignonette. As the breeze faintly stirred the leaves, the shadows danced fantastically on the sod. Over in the velvet depths of the sunken tennis courts, the fireflies flashed their lanterns incessantly. Somewhere in the distance a guitar sounded now and again, and a woman's voice rose and fell softly. It was very peaceful and pleasant, and Imrie, thinking of the hot city and the morrow, drew a deep sigh. No power on earth could prevent him from going back—but he did not pretend to think that he wanted to go.
"Don't you ever wonder what those crickets are saying?" asked Judith, conscious instinctively that her companion's eyes still burned with the same light. "Just listen to them."
"I'd rather have you listen to me," said Imrie in a choking voice, as if struggling to control himself. Suddenly his hand shot out and caught hers in a grip like iron. "I want to tell you how much I love you!" he whispered passionately.
She looked at him for a long time without replying, and he could see by the movement of the shadows on her face, that her lip quivered. Her eyes glistened, too. Then, very slowly and thoughtfully, she withdrew her hand.
"It isn't fair, it isn't fair," she repeated dully. "You promised not to."
"I know, I know—but I can't help it, my darling. I love you so much. Nothing else matters. I can't help telling you. I looked for you in church this morning and when I couldn't find you, it was so hard to go on. I didn't care, after that. It's that way always. With you beside me—it would be so different. Can't you ... don't you feel ... any different?"
She shook her head sadly. It was hard to refuse Imrie—a million times harder than all the rest. That he loved her truly, there was no doubt in her mind. Of the others, she was not so sure. But she did not love him, and it hurt tremendously to tell him so. She could not tell why. He always begged her to give a reason, and she never could. He was a good man, and an attractive man. There was nothing lacking. As candid old Mrs. Waring had told her, "Don't be a silly, my dear. You could not possibly do better." She believed that, too. Imrie was as near her ideal as she had ever ventured to formulate one. And yet....