“I think,” he answered in a low voice, “that it is your divine kindness that makes you say that to me. I think you say it because you know well enough that there’s nothing on earth I would rather hear.”
But he did not dare to look at her, and stared out at the sea with his pipe between his teeth.
Judy laughed. A rather helpless laugh, with something of exasperation in it.
“Kindness! Oh, no. It’s not that at all. I’ll tell you what it is. I’m telling you this because I’m one of those women who are possessed of an insatiable vanity. I’m trying to make you say things of the same sort to me. I exact it from every man. I like being made love to, on general principles. I took the trouble to come down to Cornwall to see you because I hoped to sit with you under this rock and be made love to. Do you believe me?”
“Not in the least.”
“Well, it’s quite as true as that I said what I did just now out of kindness. Kindness! I … I could shake you!”
His face was very troubled.
“Don’t you see that I cannot—I dare not—put any other interpretation on it? You still feel an interest in the man who nearly fell under your wheels that night. You want to know that he is not … not too unhappy. You want to leave him feeling that he can count on your friendship—and he does, and will. And that is all. It is a great deal.”
“I think you are the most annoying, insulting, irritating of men! I don’t know why I came all this way to see you and talk to you … except that I had to, Chip. Do you hear me? I had to!”
“Judy,” he said, looking at her with eyes that seemed not to see her, “I am perfectly certain of one thing. And that is, that if by some miracle you could, that you must not … you must not … care for me. But you cannot, you cannot!”