“Yes, indeed. You have been nobly, gloriously frank. Well, then—that horrible fellow did say something which I haven’t told you, something that, I confess it, has upset me.”
“What was it?” she said, still in the low voice, and bending her small head a little like one expecting punishment.
“He alluded to a friend of yours. He mentioned that nice boy I met here, young Craven?”
“Yes?”
“I really can’t get what he said over my lips, Adela.”
“I know what he said. You needn’t tell me.”
The were both silent for a minute. Then she came close to him.
“Seymour, perhaps you want to ask me a question about Mr. Craven. But—don’t! You needn’t. I have done, absolutely done, with all that side of my life which you hate. A part of my nature has persecuted me. It has often led me into follies and worse, as you know. But I have done with it. Indeed, indeed I can answer for myself. I wouldn’t dare to speak like this to you, the soul of sincerity, if I couldn’t. But I’ll prove it to you. Seymour, you know what I am. I dare say you have always known. But the other night I told you myself.”
“Yes.”
“If I hadn’t I shouldn’t dare now to ask you what I am going to ask you. Is it possible that you still love me enough to care to be more than the friend you have always been to me?”