Joe Wilson could only smile, in answer; then his smile faded and his face was scornful and somewhat stubborn.
“Yes,” he said, “and I came near not coming at all. I swore I wouldn’t.”
“But you came,” she said, still smiling.
“Only to tell you that this is the last time.”
Her smile, merrier now, was accompanied by a sound that might have been the gurgle of a little whirlpool in the rapids, or it might have been a low note of laughter.
“You didn’t mean it, then, that you love me,” she chided, coming nearer. It was not by a step that she moved, or by any perceptible effort. The space between them all at once was lessened, nothing else.
Joe had lost his careless air and posture. He was on his knees, a fury in his words.
“I didn’t mean it? You can’t say that. I have become less than a man, I love you so. You bring me here every day to do as you will, and I would die if I didn’t come, I love you so. For you I have broken my word to my friends back there in camp. And I don’t know who you are or what you are.”
Again that gentle sound that might have been a sudden swirl of the water, or her laughter. Then she was nearer, and her pleasant eyes looked into his, mockery in them.
“You don’t know who I am?” she asked softly. “And yet I am yours.”