"You couldn't annoy—make love—to a girl you really don't care for. That is very simple, isn't it?"
"Suppose I did care for you."
She looked up at him with troubled eyes, then lowered them to the blossom from which her fingers were detaching petal after petal.
"If you did really care, you wouldn't tell me, Mr. Desboro."
"Why not?"
"Because it would not be fair to me." A flush of anger—or she thought it was, brightened her cheeks. "This is nonsense," she said abruptly. "And I'll tell you another thing; I can't come here again. You know I can't. We talk foolishness—don't you know it? And there's another reason, anyway."
"What reason?"
"The real reason," she said, clenching both hands. "You know what it is and so do I—and—and I'm tired of pretending that the truth isn't true."
"What is the truth?"