"I shall not need to get a letter to you, monsieur," she told him stiffly.
"But, if you did, how would you sign it?"
"Aimée.... That is French—after my mother."
"Aimée. That means Beloved, doesn't it?"
She was silent.
Surely, she thought with a swelling heart, if he were sorry he would tell her now. It was the moment for contrition, for appeasement, for whatever explanation his American ways might have.
She had thought about him all night. She had given his declaration a hundred forms—but always it had been a declaration.
Now she waited, flagellating her sensitive pride.
Ryder was conscious of the constraint tightening about them and in the dragging pause an uncomfortable common sense had time to put its disconcerting questions.
What did it matter what her name meant? What in the world was he doing here?.... And what did she think she was doing here?... Not that he wanted her to go....