“I have never been in love with her.”
His voice was sulky. He had drawn the car close to a bank, and they were sitting in the shade, on the grass. It was the Sunday afternoon after Sidney's experience in the operating-room.
“You took her out, Max, didn't you?”
“A few times, yes. She seemed to have no friends. I was sorry for her.”
“That was all?”
“Absolutely. Good Heavens, you've put me through a catechism in the last ten minutes!”
“If my father were living, or even mother, I—one of them would have done this for me, Max. I'm sorry I had to. I've been very wretched for several days.”
It was the first encouragement she had given him. There was no coquetry about her aloofness. It was only that her faith in him had had a shock and was slow of reviving.
“You are very, very lovely, Sidney. I wonder if you have any idea what you mean to me?”
“You meant a great deal to me, too,” she said frankly, “until a few days ago. I thought you were the greatest man I had ever known, and the best. And then—I think I'd better tell you what I overheard. I didn't try to hear. It just happened that way.”