Her conscience hurt her, though she did not know why. She could have said those things before and thought nothing of them. Why did she feel sorry now?
"I didn't mean that," she said, earnestly. "Believe me, I did not."
"No," he replied, "you answered out of mere indifference."
"But I am not indifferent to you, Philip. I like you very much." She was afraid she had hurt his feelings, and she, herself, was so tense, so troubled, that she was uncertain of her emotional attitudes these days. She felt that somehow she had been cruel and very ungracious toward the man to whom she owed so much.
"I know," he said, "one is interested, of course, in a novel, foreign mountaineer."
She was beginning to feel achy, and tears were near the surface.
"Philip, why do you misunderstand me?" she cried. "It isn't that at all. I like you for the man you are."
He smiled sadly. "And did it ever occur to you that I might love you for the woman you are?" he said suddenly, his good resolutions all gone.
She stopped and her breath quickened. Over her rushed a tide of fear, regret, sorrow. Even then she wondered that it was pity and not anger which moved her.
"I do not believe that. How could you?" she said swiftly.