She smiled, a strange, artificial smile, and for an instant her clear blue eyes—those eyes which spoke of an absolute purity of soul—met mine, as she replied—
“Can a woman explain her caprice any more than a man can understand it?”
Without heeding this evasion I went on—
“Is it that you are already pledged to marry some other man?”
“No,” she answered, quickly and earnestly.
“Then it is because you do not wish me to love you,” I observed reproachfully.
Her look startled me, for it contained besides a world of grief and pity, something of self-reproach. She regarded me strangely, first as if my words were a welcome truth, then, while her brow darkened, a mental anguish forced itself into her expression.
“You were mad to come here to me,” she said, with a quick, apprehensive look. “If you knew the truth you would never again cross the threshold of this house.”
“Why?” I demanded, in an instant alert.
“For a reason that is secret,” she responded with a shade of sadness.