"Is it true?"
She had not moved. The question had the force of stubborn purpose
through its very monotony, a monotony of inflexion no less than of
repetition. Her accents were both serious and sincere. She was in
earnest; she meant to know.
"But, Venetia--"
"Or have you been just making believe, all this long time?"
"It--I--why--of course it's true!" he stammered lamely.
"Then why haven't you ever told me so?"
There sounded reproach, not unkindly, but real. He shook his wits
together.
"How could I guess you'd care to know?"
"Do you know me so little as to think I'd resent it, if I happened not
to care?"
"I--don't know--didn't think of it that way. In fact--you've knocked me
silly!"
"But why? Because I've been straightforward? Dear boy!"--she lifted a
hand to him: he took it in trembling--"you're twenty-seven, I'm
twenty-three. We know one another pretty well: we know ourselves--at
least slightly. Why can't we face things--facts--as man and woman, not
as children? What's the good of make-believe? If this thing lies between
us, let's be frank about it!"
He hesitated, doubting, searching her face. Her look was very sweet and
kind. Of a sudden he cried "Venetia!" came to his knees beside her
chair, snatched her hand and crushed it between his own, to his lips.
"I love you--I've always loved you!..."
He felt the velvet of her lips, her breath, upon his forehead; and made
as if to clasp her to him. But she slipped back, straightening an arm to
fend him off.
"No," she whispered--"not now--not here. Dear boy, get up! Think--this
moonlight--anybody might see--"
"I love you!"
"I know and, dear, I'm glad--so glad! But--you made me ask you!"
"I couldn't help that, Venetia: I was--afraid; I hardly dared to
dream--of this. You were--you are--above, beyond--"
Gently her hand sealed his mouth.
"Dear, silly boy! Get up. If you won't, I must."
Releasing her hand, he rose. His emotion shook him violently. At
discretion, he dropped back into his chair. He looked about him a little
wildly, his glance embracing all the weird fantasy of the night: the
cold, inaccessible, glittering vault of stars, the malformed and
sardonic moon, the silken bosom of the Sound, the lace and purple velvet
draperies of the land. Down on the harbour the banjo and harmonica were
ragging to tatters a sentimental ballad of the day. From the house came
a burst of laughter--Tankerville exultant in some successful stratagem
at cards.
His gaze returned to Venetia. She sat without moving, wrapped in the
exquisite mystery of her enigmatic heart, bewitching, bewildering,
steadfastly reading him with eyes veiled and inscrutable in liquid
shadow.
Muttering--"Preposterous!"--he dropped his head between his hands. "I'm
mad--mad!" he groaned.