"Most honestly." He looked up in excitement. "You don't mean you've felt anything of the sort?"
"No, I"—her voice broke as if with weariness—"I don't mean that, precisely. I mean.... Probably I don't know what I do mean. I'm really very tired, too tired to go on, just now—to sit here with you, badgering our poor wits with esoteric subtleties. I think—do you mind?—I'd better go in."
She rose quickly, without waiting for his hand. Whitaker straightened out his long body with more deliberation, standing finally at full height, his grave and moody countenance strongly relieved in the ruddy glow, while her face was all in shadow.
"One moment," he begged humbly—"before we go in. I ... I've something else to say to you, if I may."
She waited, seriously attentive.
"I haven't played fair, I'm afraid," he said, lowering his head to escape her steadfast gaze. "I've just told you that I love you, but...."
"Well?" she demanded in an odd, ringing voice. "Isn't it true?"
"True?" He laughed unnaturally. "It's so true I—wish I had died before I told you!"
"Why?"
"Because ... because you didn't resent my telling you...."