Prosper smoked and stood there looking, now at her, now at the fire. At last, with difficulty, he smiled. “You are not going to make it easy for me, are you, Joan?”
For her part she was not looking at him. She kept her eyes on the fire and this averted look distressed and irritated his nerves.
“I am not trying to make it hard,” she said; “I want you to say what you came to say and go.”
“Did you ever love me, Joan?”
He had said it to force a look from her, but it had the effect only of making her more still, if possible.
“I don’t know,” she said slowly, answering with her old directness. “I thought you needed me. I was alone. I was scared of the emptiness when I went out and looked down the valley. I thought Pierre had gone out of the world and there was no living thing that wanted me. I came back and you met me and you put your arms round me and you said”—she closed her eyes and repeated his speech as though she had just heard it—“‘Don’t leave me, Joan.’”
Her voice was more than ever before moving and expressive. Prosper felt that half-forgotten thrill. The muscles of his throat contracted. “Joan, I did want you. I spoke the truth,” he pleaded.
She went on with no impatience but very coldly. “You came to tell me your side. Will you tell me, please?”
For the first time she looked into his eyes and he drew in his breath at the misery of hers.
“I built that cabin, Joan,” he said, “for another woman.”