"Why do you look at me like that?" she said, coming down to him with the look of slow strength that was always characteristic of her.
"I don't know. How do you mean?"
"As if you had something to tell me."
"Perhaps—perhaps I have," he answered.
He was on the verge, the very verge of confession. She put her arm through his. When she touched him the impulse waned, but it did not die utterly away.
"Tell it me," she said. "I love to hear everything you tell me. I don't think you could ever tell me anything that I should not understand."
"Are you—are you sure?"
"I think so."
"But"—he suddenly remembered some words of hers that, till then, he had forgotten—"but you had something to tell me."