“Oh, yes, ‘Teddy’! It is a lie. Why tell it?”
“I mean that—if it hadn’t been me it would have been—some one else. Your time had come,” she returned, nervously.
From across the lake came singing—some “coon song” anglicized into quaint incomprehensibility. Cleeve folded his arms.
“Don’t—look like that, Teddy.”
“I look as I feel. I am not—you.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that you looked at me at dinner as if——”
“Hush! Don’t say horrid things.”
“You looked at me as though you loved me. And if truth is better than lying, it was worse to look like that—without feeling it, than it would have been to really feel it.”
“You are talking nonsense. I am very nearsighted, and——”