Tommy waited a moment. "Do you mean to say, Beatrice...."
"What?"
"Can you truthfully tell me that you—that you aren't fond of me too? Just a little?"
"Certainly!"
"Rot! Utter, senseless rot! You know it isn't so!—"
"Hush, Tommy! People will hear."
"Let 'em hear, then. Beatrice!" he went on more quietly; "there's no use trying to take me in by that 'never knew' rot. Of course you knew, of course you cared. Why've you sat talking with me here, night after night, why've you been so uncommon jolly nice—nicer 'n you ever were before? Why did you ever let me get to this point?—Don't pretend you couldn't help it, either!" He paused a moment. "Why did you let me kiss you that night?"
That shaft hit. She lost her head a little, and fell back on an old feminine ruse.
"Oh, Tommy, you've no right to bring that up against me!" she said, with a little flurried break in her voice.
Tommy's obvious answer was a quiet "Why not?" but he was not the kind who can give the proper answer at such moments. He was much more affected by Beatrice's evident perturbation than Beatrice was by his home truth, and was much slower in recovering.