He, too, was white, for the struggle was great in his soul.
"It isn't mine!" she said. "I want to say that! I had to say that. I stopped you—just to say that." She blushed to say so much, but she met his stern gaze fearlessly with courage in her eyes.
He could not understand her in the least, unless she still had more to do, and thought to hold his friendship, perhaps for Searle's protection. He forced himself to probe in that direction.
"And you'd wish to go on being friends?"
It was a hard question—hard to ask and hard to answer. She colored anew, but she did not flinch. Her love was too vast, too strong and elemental to shrink at a crucial moment.
"I valued your friendship—very much," she confessed steadily. "Why shouldn't I wish it to continue?"
It was aggravating to have her seem so honest, so splendid, so womanly and fine, when he thought of that line in her letter. He could not spare himself or her in the agitation of his nature.
"Your way and mine are different," he said. "My arts in deceit were neglected, I'm afraid."
Her eyes blazed more widely than before. Her color went like sunset tints from the sky, leaving her face an ashen hue of chill.
"Deceit?" she repeated. "You mean that I—I have deceived you? What do you mean?"