“Then you were not hurt?”
“No; I—thought you spoke as if you would like to have me come—”
“Perhaps you were ill,” Lucina said, hesitatingly.
“No, I was not. I did not—”
“Oh, it was not because you did not want to come!” Lucina cried out, quickly, and yet with exceeding gentleness and sad wonder, that he should force such a suspicion upon her.
“No, it was not. I—wanted to come more than—I wanted to come, but—I did not think it—best.” Jerome said the last so defiantly that poor Lucina started.
“But it was because of nothing I had said, and it was not because you did not want to?” she said, piteously.
“No,” said Jerome. Then he said, again, as if he found strength in the repetition. “I did not think it best.”
“I thought you were coming that night,” Lucina said, with scarcely the faintest touch of reproach but with more of wonder. Why should he not have thought it best?
“I am sorry,” said Jerome. “I wanted to tell you, but I had no reason but that to give, and I—thought you might not understand.”