“Why should I not say it?” he asked; and again they stared at each other.
Suddenly she broke out, in a voice full of anguish, “Frank, this is what I want to know—answer me this! Do you love me?”
“Do I love you?” he echoed.
“Yes,”—and with greater intensity, “I want you to be honest about it!”
“Honey!” he said, his voice trembling, “it’s the question of whether I’m allowed to love you. It’s so terrible to me—I can’t stand the uncertainty.”
She cried again, “But do you want to love me?”
She heard his voice break, she saw the emotion that was shaking him, and with a sudden sob she was in his arms. “Oh, Frank, Frank!” she exclaimed. “What have we been doing to each other?”
And so at last the fog of misunderstanding was lifted. “Sweetheart,” he exclaimed, “what could you have been thinking?”
“I thought you had stopped loving me because I had been too bold, because I had been unwomanly.”
“Why, Sylvia, you must be mad! Have I not been hungry for your love?”