She blushed and glanced up at me shyly.
“It really isn’t fair to ask me that,” she protested, flicking at the last year’s leaves with the point of her umbrella. “A woman must have a heart like stone if she never experiences any feeling of love. If I replied in the negative I should only lie to you. That you know quite well.”
“Then you have a lover, eh?” I exclaimed quickly, perhaps in a tone of ill-concealed regret.
“No,” she responded, in a low, firm voice, “I have no lover.” Then after a few moments’ pause she inquired, “Why do you ask me that?”
“Because, Muriel,” I said seriously, taking her hand, “because I desire to know the truth.”
“Why?” she asked, looking at me in mingled amazement and alarm. “We are friends, it is true; but your friendship gives you no right to endeavour to learn the secret of my heart,” and she gently withdrew her hand from my grasp.
I was silent, unable to reply to such an argument.
“And you love this man?” I said, in a rather hard voice.
But she merely shrugged her shoulders, and with a forced laugh answered—
“Oh, let’s talk of something else. We are out to enjoy ourselves to-day, not to discuss each other’s love affairs.”