"Don't you?"
"I—no!"
"Is that the truth, Kathleen?"
She looked up; the divine distress in her violet eyes sobered him, awed him for a moment.
"Kathleen," he said, "there are only a few years' difference between our ages. I feel older than you; you look younger than I—and you are all in the world I care for—or ever have cared for. Last spring—that night——"
"Hush, Scott," she begged, blushing scarlet.
"I know you remember. That is when I began to love you. You must have known it."
She said nothing; the strain of her resisting arms against his breast had relaxed imperceptibly.
"What can a fellow say?" he went on a little wildly, checked at moments by the dryness of his throat and the rapid heartbeats that almost took his breath away when he looked at her. "I love you so dearly, Kathleen; there's no use in trying to live without loving you, for I couldn't do it!... I'm not really young; it makes me furious to think you consider me in that light. I'm a man, strong enough and old enough to love you—and make you love me! I will make you!" His arms tightened.
She uttered a little cry, which was half a sob; his boyish roughness sent a glow rushing through her. She fought against the peril of it, the bewildering happiness that welled up—fought against her heart that was betraying her senses, against the deep, sweet passion that awoke as his face touched hers.