She lifted her face. "Walter, I have never in all my life deceived you. I do not care for you. Not in that way."
He smiled. "Well, I'll be content so long as you care for me in any way—your way. I think your way's a mistake; but I won't insist on that. I'll do my best to adapt my way to yours, that's all."
Her face was very still. Under their deep lids her eyes brooded, as if trying to see the truth inside herself.
"No—no," she moaned. "I haven't told you the truth. I believe there is no way in which I can care for you again. Or—well—I can care perhaps—I'm caring now—but—"
"I see. You do not love me."
She shook her head. "No. I know what love is, and—I do not love you."
"If you don't love me, of course there's nothing more to be said."
"Yes, there is. There's one thing that I have kept from you."
"Well," he said, "you may as well let me have it. There's no good keeping things from me."
"I had meant to spare you."