She lowered her gaze and remained silent for a moment, apparently considering what he had said. Then the uplifted candour of her eyes questioned him again:
"You don't imagine yourself in love with me again, do you, Clive?"
"No."
"Nothing like that could happen to you again, could it?... Because it has not yet happened to me. It couldn't.... And it would be too—too ghastly if you—if anything—"
"Don't talk about it that way!" he said sharply. "If it did happen—what of it?"... He forced a
smile. "But it won't happen.... Things like that don't happen to people like you and me. We care too much for each other, don't we, Athalie?"
"Yes.... It would be terrible.... I don't know why I put such ideas into your head—or into my own. But you—there was something in your expression.... Oh, Clive, dear, it couldn't happen to you, could it?"
She leaned forward impulsively and put both hands on his shoulders, gazing into his eyes, searching them fearfully for any trace of what she thought for a moment she had seen in them.
He said gaily enough: "No fear, dear. I'm exactly what I always have been. I'll always be what you want me to be, Athalie."
"I know.... But if ever—"