She shook her head. “I'm afraid, Simon, I'm afraid.”
“What of?”
“Myself.”
“Why?”
“I can't tell you. I can't explain. I don't know how to. I've been wrong—horribly wrong. I'm ashamed.”
She gripped her hands together and looked down at them. I bent forward so as to see her face, which was full of pain.
“But, dearest of all women,” I cried, “what in the world have you to be ashamed of?”
She paused, moistened her lips with her tongue, and then broke out:
“I'll tell you. A decent lady like your Eleanor Faversham wouldn't tell. But I can't keep these things in. Didn't you begin by saying I was a seductress? No, no, let me talk. Didn't you say I could make a man do what I wanted? Well, I wanted you to kiss me. And now you've done it, you think you love me; but you don't, you can't.”
“You're talking the wickedest nonsense that ever proceeded out of the lips of a loving woman,” I said aghast. “I repeat in the most solemn way that I love you with all my heart.”