Her voice shook Montague, so that he trembled to the depths of him. But his face only became the more grave.
“You despise me because I told you!” she exclaimed.
“No, no, Mrs. Winnie,” he said. “I could not possibly do that—”
“Then—then why—” she whispered.—“Would it be so hard to love me?”
“It would be very easy,” he said, “but I dare not let myself.”
She looked at him piteously. “You are so cold—so merciless!” she cried.
He answered nothing, and she sat trembling. “Have you ever loved a woman?” she asked.
There was a long pause. He sat in the chair again. “Listen, Mrs. Winnie”—he began at last.
“Don’t call me that!” she exclaimed. “Call me Evelyn—please.”
“Very well,” he said—“Evelyn. I did not intend to make you unhappy—if I had had any idea, I should never have seen you again. I will tell you—what I have never told anybody before. Then you will understand.”