I am afraid I turned rather red, for, to be candid, I am something of a fool where women are concerned. At the same time I was surprised at her knowing the truth, and I suppose she guessed this, for, before I had time to speak again, she went on—
“You must not forget that I am a modern girl, my dear old Dick. I know a great deal that I suppose I have no business to know, and when I hear things I remember them. Don’t for a moment flatter yourself that I think you perfect. I don’t. My frank opinion of you is that you really are an awfully good sort, kind, sympathetic, unselfish—singularly unselfish for a man—generous to a fault, and extravagant. In short, I like you far, far better than any man I have ever met, and I love you very much, you dear old boy—but there it ends.”
“I should rather say it did!” I answered. “If you really think all that of me, I am more than satisfied.”
“On the other hand,” she continued quickly, “I don’t pretend to think—and you needn’t think I do—that you are not just like most other men in some respects, in one respect in particular.”
“What is the one respect?”
“You are dreadfully susceptible—oh, yes, Dick, you are! There is no need for any one to tell me that. I can see it in your face. Your eyes betray you. You have what I once heard a girl friend of mine call, ‘affectionate eyes.’ She said to me: ‘Never trust a man who has “affectionate eyes,” and I never have trusted one—except you.’”
“I am flattered dear. Then why not do what I suggest?” I asked, raising her soft hand to my lips.
“It wouldn’t be safe, Dick, it really wouldn’t. We must wait until—until Paulton is dead.”
“Until Paulton—is—until he—is dead!” I gasped. “Good Heavens! that may not be for years!”
She smiled oddly.