"Oh, yes. I like you--very much. I have from the first time I saw you.
But you seem older--and more serious."
"Never mind about that. We are going to love each other--and I am going
to make you and your father happy."
"If you make father happy I will do anything for you. I don't want
anything myself--but he is getting old and sometimes his despair is
terrible." There were tears in her voice--tears and the most touching
tenderness. "He has some great secret that he wants to discover, and he
is afraid he will die without having had the chance."
"You will love me if I make your father happy?"
He knew it was the question of a fool, but he so longed to hear from her
lips some word to give him hope that he could not help asking it. She
said:
"Love you as--as you seem to love me? Not that same way. I don't feel
that way toward you. But I will love you in my own way."
He observed her with penetrating eyes. Was this speech of hers innocence
or calculation? He could get no clue to the truth. He saw nothing but
innocence; the teaching of experience warned him to believe in nothing
but guile. He hid his doubt and chagrin behind a mocking smile. "As you
please," said he. "I will do my part. Then--we'll see. . . . Do you care
about anyone else--in _my_ way of loving, I mean?"
It was again the question of an infatuated fool, and put in an
infatuated fool's way. For, if she were a "deep one," how could he hope
to get the truth? But her answer reassured him. "No," she said--her
simple, direct negation that had a convincing power he had never seen
equaled.
"If I ever knew of another man's touching you," he said, "I'd feel like
strangling him." He laughed at himself. "Not that I should strangle him.
That sort of thing isn't done any more. But I'd do something devilish."
"But I haven't promised not to kiss anyone else," she said. "Why should
I? I don't love you."
He looked at her strangely. "But you're going to love me," he said.
She shrank within herself again. She looked at him with uneasy eyes.
"You won't kiss me any more until I tell you that I do love you?" she
asked with the gravity and pathos and helplessness of a child.
"Don't you want to learn to love me?--to learn to love?"
She was silent--a silence that maddened him.
"Don't be afraid to speak," he said irritably. "What are you thinking?"
"That I don't want you to kiss me--and that I do want father to be
happy."
Was this guile? Was it innocence? He put his arms round her. "Look at
me," he said.
She gazed at him frankly.
"You like me?"
"Yes."
"Why don't you want me to kiss you?"
"I don't know. It makes me--dislike you."
He released her. She laid her hand on his arm eagerly. "Please--" she
implored. "I don't mean to hurt you. I wouldn't offend you for anything.
Only--when you ask me a question--mustn't I tell you the truth?"
"Always," he said, believing in her, in spite of the warnings of cynical
worldliness. "I don't know whether you are sincere or not--as yet. So
for the present I'll give you the benefit of the doubt." He stood back
and looked at her from head to foot. "You are beautiful!--perfect," he
said in a low voice. He laughed. "I'll resist the temptation to kiss you
again. I must go now. About your father--I'll see what can be done."
She stood with her hands behind her back, looking up at him with an
expression he could not fathom. Suddenly she advanced, put up her lips
and said gravely,
"Won't you kiss me?"