"I think that I love you more than I ever did before," he whispered.
If he had shown any passion, if there had been any warmth in his kiss, Cynthia might have believed him, but she was aware only of his gentleness. She pushed him back and drew out of his arms.
"No," she said sharply; "you don't love me. You're just sorry for me.... You're just kind."
Hugh had read "Marpessa" many times, and a line from it came to make her attitude clear:
"thou wouldst grow kind;
Most bitter to a woman that was loved."
"Oh, I don't know; I don't know," he said miserably. "Let's not call everything off now, Cynthia. Let's wait a while."
"No!" She stood up decisively. "No. I hate loose ends." She glanced at her tiny wrist-watch. "If I'm going to make that train, I've got to hurry. We've got barely half an hour. Come, Hugh. Be a sport."
He stood up, his face white and weary, his blue eyes dull and sad.
"Just as you say, Cynthia," he said slowly. "But I'm going to miss you like hell."