He spoke with a queer hoarseness.
For a moment she held his eyes steadily, then with quick colour turned away her head.
“I thought,” she said, “we were to be friends.”
“Haven’t you had enough of friendship?”
She had thought he would recover himself at the rebuke, but if anything his voice was more insistent.
“Haven’t you?” he repeated.
“There is no need for you to make love to me, Mr. Quiltan.”
“How do you know?” he retorted. “How can you possibly say that?”
She rose and moved some plates to the dresser.
“I suppose you were sorry for me, and thought that the kindest way to show it. You were wrong.”