"My notion?" she stammered, helplessly, feeling the hot flames leap like floods of his molten metal to her neck, her face, and her bosom. "I don't believe—I have—any notions."
"Your convictions, then?" he amended. "Or, if you like, your principles?"
"My—my principles of—of all that—are—just about like—everyone else's, I suppose," she managed to answer, fragmentarily, "—being honest—and true—and faithful—unto death."
"To the one that you really love?"
"Why—certainly—of course." The heat in her face increased, so significant had she felt his words with that low even tone of emphasis.
He stared so long at the sea after that she began to suspect he had not even heard her reply. After a time she was tempted to play, just a trifle, with the fire. She added, "Why did you ask?"
"Wanted to know." Once more he fell dumb, and again she waited, afraid he would, and more afraid he would not, continue the delicate topic. Once again, also, she was tempted.
"And what," she inquired, "is your—notion?"
He did not turn. "Of love or crocodiles?"
"Of—of love—was what you asked me."