"And I suppose you were, in a way, entitled to use against me the only
weapons you had. You see, I am quite frank. Only--you used them too
soon. I don't love you. Probably, if we had been together a week
longer, I should have, but--I do _not_ love you at this minute."
"Wait till I'm gone," he observed, with his horrible young wisdom.
She frowned. "That has nothing to do with it. You leave here to-morrow
morning, and on Friday you sail. And I do not love you. I am sorry for
having hurt you. Believe this."
"I don't believe it. I'm not sorry, and I don't believe you are.
Listen--the others are coming. Run back to the house, and I'll go and
meet them. And first--let me kiss you again."
The voices, still afar seemed discordant in the white stillness.
Cleeve opened his arms. "Come. Then I shall believe you." Lady Harden
took a step forward, and held her face bravely to his.
Then, just as he bent his head, she turned and hid her face on his
arm. "I cannot," she whispered.
The Boy-Man's lips were set hard, his brows drawn down.
"Ah, Dagny, dearest," he whispered, "and I must go to-morrow."
She looked up. "You have won; I have lost; thank God you go
to-morrow!" she answered.
A moment later she was speeding through the shadows toward the house,
and Cleeve, lighting a cigarette, lounged down to the drive toward the
laughing groups of returning frolickers.