"I know; you have had no time. I know that; I ought to know it by this time, for I have told myself often enough. And yet—when we are together, it is—it has been—different. Can you tell me why? Do you think me changed?"
"You must not change," he said.
"No," she breathed, wondering, "I could not—except—a little, as I told you."
"You must not change—not even that way!" he repeated in a voice so low she could scarcely hear him—and believed she had misunderstood him.
"I did not hear you," she said faintly. "What did you say to me?"
"I cannot say it again."
She slowly shook her head, not comprehending, and for a while sat silent, struggling with her own thoughts. Then, suddenly instinct with the subtle fear which had driven her into speech:
"When I said—said that to you—last summer; when I cried in the swinging seat there—because I could not answer you—as I wished to—did that change you, Captain Selwyn?"
"No."
"Then y-you are unchanged?"