“And, tell me, Alexia, you have never returned the love of one of them—till now?”
She gave a little shrug. “Never, I suppose, till now.”
The last two words were almost whispered, but he caught their thrill.
“My dear Geoffrey,” she continued, changing her tone, “you know the world, and that there are no exact rules for judging men, let alone women. With some of us love is a very ordinary and regularly recurring episode; a love affair is like a new gown, an agreeable anticipation in the progress of its making, a shallow joy when it is new and novel, a waning interest as it wears out, and at last just kept on till its successor is ready. To others,” she sank her voice, “love is fate.”
He took her hand. “Ours has come at last. May it be a happy one. But I should have thought that love, if not fate, had come to you before.”
Alexia smiled. “Why should you think so? Is it inconceivable that a woman should not fall in love before she is—twenty-eight?”
“With you,” he answered, “it is almost incredible. Still I did not draw my conclusions from that, but rather from your manner when I asked the question.”
“My manner? Was it betraying?”
“It seemed to suggest an arrière pensée.”
She laughed, “Of earlier blighted affections. Hardly complimentary to you. No,” she added, more seriously, “I have never been in love—till now.”