“Well, then, can you say to me that if I were to accept it, the shame of my family would never make any difference to you?”
She cried instantly, “That is what I’ve been trying to tell you! Of course it would not.”
“You can say that?” he persisted. “It would make no difference whatever?”
She was about to answer again; but he stopped her. “Wait and think. You must know just what I mean. It is not a thing about which I could endure a mistake. Think of your family—your friends—your whole world! And think of everything that might arise between us!”
She stared at him, startled. He was asking if he might make love to her! She had not meant it to go so far as that—but there it was. Her own recklessness, and his forthrightness, had brought it to that point. And what could she say?
“Think!” he was saying. “And don’t try to evade—don’t lie to me. Answer me the truth!”
His eyes held hers. She waited—thinking, as he forced her to. At last, when she spoke, it was with a slightly trembling voice. “It would make no difference,” she said.
And then she tried to continue looking at him, but she could not. She was blushing; it was a dreadful habit she had!
It was an absolutely intolerable situation, and she must do something—instantly. He never would—the dreadful sphinx of a man! She looked up. “Now we’re friends?” she asked.
“Yes,” he replied.