I stopped, face to face with the fact that I could not give those reasons to her or any one else. She was looking at me expectantly, and with, so it seemed to me, an expression of real, almost eager interest. I faltered, tried to go on, and then surrendered, absolutely, to the hopelessness of the situation.
“It is no use,” I said, “I can't tell you what those reasons were.”
I turned as I said it. I did not care to see her expression change. I knew what she must be thinking and I had no desire to read the thought in her eyes. I stood there, waiting for her to leave in disgust.
“I can't tell you,” I repeated, stubbornly.
“Very well.” Her tone was as coldly indifferent as I had anticipated. “Was that all you wished to say to me, Mr. Paine?”
“Miss Colton, I should like to explain if I could. But I cannot.”
“Pray don't trouble yourself. I assure you I had no intentions of asking for your—reasons. Good afternoon.”
I heard her skirts brush the leaves at the border of the path. She was going; and the contemptuous slur at my “reasons” proved that she did not believe them existent. She believed me to be a liar.
“Miss Colton,” I said, sharply; “wait.”
She kept on.