"Or have you been just making believe, all this long time?"
"It—I—why—of course it's true!" he stammered lamely.
"Then why haven't you ever told me so?"
There sounded reproach, not unkindly, but real. He shook his wits together.
"How could I guess you'd care to know?"
"Do you know me so little as to think I'd resent it, if I happened not to care?"
"I—don't know—didn't think of it that way. In fact—you've knocked me silly!"
"But why? Because I've been straightforward? Dear boy!"—she lifted a hand to him: he took it in trembling—"you're twenty-seven, I'm twenty-three. We know one another pretty well: we know ourselves—at least slightly. Why can't we face things—facts—as man and woman, not as children? What's the good of make-believe? If this thing lies between us, let's be frank about it!"
He hesitated, doubting, searching her face. Her look was very sweet and kind. Of a sudden he cried "Venetia!" came to his knees beside her chair, snatched her hand and crushed it between his own, to his lips.
"I love you—I've always loved you!..."