“Except myself, Anne. I know you too well. You would never do anything beneath you.”
She flicked her ashes into the grate rather nervously. “Then you know me better than I do myself!”
He leaned towards her, deeply troubled.
“What is the matter, Anne? Won’t you tell me, dear? You’re so different from your former self, so unapproachable. So almost irritable. Are you unhappy about this man? Do you care for him, perhaps? Has love finally come to you after all these years?”
Again she avoided the earnest gaze. “I don’t know. I—I’m afraid not.”
“You don’t know?” he stammered.
“No.” The word came draggingly from pale lips.
“But what is it, dear one? Do you intend to marry this boy? Is that why you say you are afraid?”
“No.” Once more the monosyllable was barely audible. Then she turned and faced the honest eyes squarely.
“I cannot marry Alexis even if I want to. He has a wife already!”