“Dannie,” she ventured, softly, “you’re able t’ take it.”
“Ay––but will not.”
“You’re wonderful strong, Dannie, an’ I’m but a maid.”
“I’ll wrest no kisses,” said I, with a twitch of scorn, “from maids.”
She smiled. ’Twas a passing burst of rapture, which, vanishing, left her wan and aged beyond her years.
“No,” she whispered, but not to me, “he’d not do that. He’d not––do that! An’ I’d care little enough for the Dannie Callaway that would.”
“You cares little enough as ’tis,” said I. “You cares nothing at all. You cares not a jot.”
She smiled again: but now as a wilful, flirting maid. “As for carin’ for you, Dannie,” she mused, dissembling candor, “I do––an’ I don’t.”
The unholy spell that a maid may weave! The shameless trickery of this!