He was silent, fiddling with a fork, avoiding her eye.
"Of Lucinda—you understand."
He said heavily: "Yes...."
She waited an instant, and when he failed to say more began to see that she had overplayed her hand.
"You do love me, don't you, Bel?"
"Of course."
"Then you must know how hard it is for me, you can't blame me for growing impatient."
This time he looked up and met her gaze. "Impatient for what?"
"Why, for what every woman expects when she's in love and the man whom she loves loves her; something definite to look forward to, I mean. We can't go on like this, of course."
"No, not like this."