Almost every girl he had ever made love to had asked him the same question, and he was not abashed by it.
The ever-ready answer was on his lips instantly.
"How could you ever believe that I had spoken one word of love to any one but yourself," he said, reproachfully. "No other face has ever had the slightest attraction for me. The men of my race have but one love in a life-time. I have never loved before I met you. I shall love you until I die. Are you answered?"
He looked straight into her face as he uttered the falsehood.
There did sweep across his mind, as he uttered the falsehood, the memory of Ida May; but he put it from him quickly.
How strange it was that her memory should always haunt him, try hard as he would to banish it!
"You are quite sure that you never loved any girl but me?" she repeated.
"Quite sure," he responded. "To doubt me causes me great pain, Florence."
"Then forget that I asked the question," she said, sweetly, believing in him implicitly.