“Last night!” She swung round and faced him. “I tell you we’ve got to forget last night—count it out. It—it was just an interlude—”
She broke off, blenching at the abrupt change in his expression. Up till now his face had been full of an incredulous, boyish bewilderment, half tender, half chiding. Within himself he had refused to believe that there was any serious intent behind her letter. It was fruit of some foolish misunderstanding or shy feminine withdrawal, and he was here to straighten it all out, to reassure her. But that word “interlude”! Had she been deliberately playing with him after all? Women did such things—sometimes. His features took on a sudden sternness.
“An interlude?” he repeated quietly. “I’m afraid I don’t understand. Will you explain?”
Her shoulders moved resentfully.
“Why do you want to force me into explanations?” she burst out. “Surely—surely you understand? We can’t marry—we haven’t money enough!”
There was a long pause before he spoke again.
“I’ve enough money to marry on, if it comes to that,” he said at last, slowly. “Though we should certainly be comparatively poor. What you mean is that I’m not rich enough to satisfy you, I suppose?”
She nodded.
“Yes. I’m sick—sick of being poor! I’ve been poor all my life—always having to skimp and save and do things on the cheap—go without this and make shift with that. I’m tired of it! This last two months with Aunt Elvira—all this luxury and beauty,” she gestured eloquently towards the villa standing like a gem in its exquisite Italian setting, “the car, the perfect service, as many frocks as I want—Oh! I’ve loved it all! And I can’t give it up. I can’t go back to being poor again!”
She paused, breathless, and her eyes, passionately upbraiding, beseeching understanding, sought his face.