She turned to him, startled, then averted her face. Every vestige of colour was gone, even from her lips. "Don't!" she said, brokenly. "Don't make fun of me. I must go."
She rose to her feet, trembling, but he caught her hand and held her back. "Look at me, dear. I'm not making fun of you. I mean it—every word."
She sat down beside him, then, well out of reach of his outstretched hand. "What for?" she asked, curiously.
"Because I want you."
"I—I don't understand."
"Don't you love me?"
"You have no right to ask me that." Her tone was harsh and tremulous with suppressed emotion.
"No," he agreed, after a pause, "I suppose I haven't." She did not answer, so, after a little, he rose and stood before her, forcing her eyes to meet his.
"Do you—know?" he asked.
Rosemary hesitated for a moment. "Yes, I—know," she said, in a different tone.