“I didn’t mean to be,” she answered.
“No, I don’t think you did. You—you just didn’t think, I suppose. It was all a bit of good fun with you. But—it played the deuce with me.”
“Did it?” she asked regretfully.
“But I’m not blaming you—now,” he went on. “I did at first. It seemed needlessly cruel and heartless. But I understand now that it was all my fault. You see, dear, I took it for granted, I thought, that you—cared—the way I did. It was my silly conceit.”
He thought he heard a little sob beside him, but he resisted the temptation to turn and look.
“If only there hadn’t been that kiss,” he continued dreamily. “That—I’ve never quite understood that. Sometimes—I dare say it’s my conceit again—but sometimes I can’t help thinking that you did care—a little—just then! That is the hardest to forgive, dear,—and forget, that kiss. If it wasn’t for the memory of that I think I could stand it better. Why did you do it? Why?”
There was no answer save the sighing of a little breeze which crept down the slope in a floating shower of dead leaves.
“Ah, but I want to know!” he insisted doggedly. “Was it just in fun? Was it merely in pity? It couldn’t have been, I tell you! You never kissed me like that for pity, dear! There was love in your eyes, sweetheart; I saw it; fathoms deep in that purple twilight! Love, do you hear? You can’t deny it, you can’t! And you trembled in my arms! Why did you do it?” he asked sharply.
He turned impetuously,—and sighed. He was all alone. The presence had fled.
