“Well, then, I must be a very unfortunate sort of man, Winifred.”
“Don’t believe me!” Winifred wished to cry out. But the words were checked on her white lips. The thought arose in her, “He that putteth his hand to the plow and looketh back—”
“It is sudden, this truth that you tell me,” went on Carshaw. “Is it a truth?”
“Yes.”
“You are not fond of me, Winnie?”
“I have a liking for you.”
“That’s all?”
“That is all.”
“Don’t say it, dear. I suffer.”