“Admit that I love you? Yes, I believe I do.”
The sun was down. Dusk was settling over the plain. The water ran black before them. They sat for some time, gazing into its smooth depths. At last she broke the silence.
“Do you know, Mr. Burton, you are rather undemonstrative in your declaration of love.” There was a sly, fascinating banter in her voice.
Burton made no answer. He saw a figure in white, and heard a voice saying, “I have sometimes thought I could, perhaps, love a man, if I found one who was not a liar.” And he was wondering, weighing these two women, each so powerful in her personality, although differing so much in manner of expressing it. Miss Vane he understood, or at least thought he did, but this girl was something so altogether different. He knew that most men, and all women, would question her motives; he would be sincere with her. At least he would not be a liar, active or passive.
“Perhaps I admitted more than I really meant,” he ventured, at length.
“More than was true?”
“Yes, more than was quite true.”
“Then you love another. It is that love that has made you honest with me. I congratulate her. Tell me about her.”
“You take rejection easily.”
“Silly boy! A woman is never rejected while she lives. Is she pretty?”