“You may be right,” she said with a half smile that he could not interpret. “By all means let us talk it out!” Her serene glance was raised again; but it did not rest on Wilfred. She was looking at the kettle, meditatively. “If you do not love me, why do you want to marry me?”
“I do love you,” said Wilfred. “But not. . . .”
“Not passionately,” she quickly interposed, smiling and looking at him full; an extraordinary look of remote kindness.
Wilfred was silent. He was being put in the wrong, though he knew he was right.
“Well, your reasons?” she asked.
“You are the finest woman I know,” he said quickly. This was one of the questions he had imagined her asking. “I respect and admire you. My instinct tells me you will grow in my respect and admiration as long as I live. That’s the only thing that could hold me.”
She smiled again. He felt resentfully, that she was reading him through and through. It wasn’t fair, because he was all at sea respecting her. Still, everything had to come out!
“You feel that it is essential you should be held,” said Frances Mary, dryly.
“Oh Fanny, you make me feel so young!”
Again that smile from a distance. The kettle boiled; but instead of making tea, she put out the light. She looked about her. Fetching a little raffia basket, she commenced to sew a lace edging to a scrap of white stuff.