She gave him a long look. "Yes, you scored. All ways. Because, it was only when I was angry with you that I—thought he might do." There could be no comment on that. Then she said, "I'm thankful that I told you everything before he did."
"So am I, by Jove," said James. He put his arm round her. "If you hadn't," he said, "I think I could have let him die." Lucy shook her head.
"No, you wouldn't have done that. He would have—but not you. If you had been capable of that you wouldn't have called me to come to you as you did—that day." He knew which day she meant, and felt it necessary to tell her something about it.
"On that day," he said, "though you didn't know it, I was awfully in love with you." She looked at him, wonderfully. "No, I didn't know that! What a donkey I was! But I was wretched. I simply longed for you."
"If you hadn't cried, you would never have had me." That she understood.
"You wanted to pity me."
"No, I had been afraid of you. Your tears brought you down to earth."
"That's poetry," said Lucy.
"It's the nature of man," he maintained.
She wanted to know if he "minded" her seeing Urquhart. He did, very much; but wouldn't say so.