“Well, that is a most extraordinary thing, that we should find it like this!” Knight then remembered more circumstances; “What, is it the one you have told me of?”
“Yes.”
The unfortunate remark of hers at the kiss came into his mind, if eyes were ever an index to be trusted. Trying to repress the words he yet spoke on the subject, more to obtain assurance that what it had seemed to imply was not true than from a wish to pry into bygones.
“Were you really engaged to be married to that lover?” he said, looking straight forward at the sea again.
“Yes—but not exactly. Yet I think I was.”
“O Elfride, engaged to be married!” he murmured.
“It would have been called a—secret engagement, I suppose. But don’t look so disappointed; don’t blame me.”
“No, no.”
“Why do you say ‘No, no,’ in such a way? Sweetly enough, but so barely?”
Knight made no direct reply to this. “Elfride, I told you once,” he said, following out his thoughts, “that I never kissed a woman as a sweetheart until I kissed you. A kiss is not much, I suppose, and it happens to few young people to be able to avoid all blandishments and attentions except from the one they afterwards marry. But I have peculiar weaknesses, Elfride; and because I have led a peculiar life, I must suffer for it, I suppose. I had hoped—well, what I had no right to hope in connection with you. You naturally granted your former lover the privileges you grant me.”