"It begins and ends with—yourself," he said, gravely and firmly.
"Like the story of Mrs. Osgood's Evelyn," she rejoined, smiling, and beginning to hum lightly:
"It began with—'My Evelyn fairest!'
It ended with—'Evelyn best!'
And epithets fondest and dearest,
Were lavished between on the rest."
Then breaking off, she says more seriously and softly:
"Then try to think that is the same with me. Don't worry over such idle speculations. I am tired and half sick, dear."
"Gracie, you drive me to desperation. I asked you a simple question—why do you try to evade it?"
"Because it is unfair to me. I haven't asked you any such ridiculous questions. I won't submit to be catechised so, positively, I won't! Don't be angry, dear. I am sure the slightest reflection on your part will convince you that I am right. I have partly forgotten the past; have ignored it anyhow, not caring to look back any further in my life than the two years in which I have known and loved you. All the happiness I ever really knew has been showered on me by your lavish hand. Be content in knowing that and spare me, Paul."
"I thank you, Grace, for your sweet tribute to me, but I asked you a question and I am—waiting for your answer."
"I thought I had answered you plainly enough, Paul. Why will you persist in making us both unhappy?"