"Tell me that you don't love me and I'll give the signal."
"I ... don't."
"Look straight at me and say it."
She tried to look at him and repeat it, but her eyes betrayed the secret she was fighting to keep from him. The long lashes fell to the hot cheeks an instant too late.
His hand found hers. "My little Irish wild rose, all sweetness and thorns," he murmured.
Above the tumult of her heart she heard her voice say, as if it were that of a stranger, "It's no use ... I can't ... marry you."
"Because I'm a highgrader?"
She nodded.
"Do you think I'm worse than other men? Down in the bottom of your heart do you believe that?"
She smiled wanly. "Other men are not ... making love to me."