“With Querida’s arm around you, did you expect me to smile?” he asked, savagely.

“Was it that?” she demanded, astonished.

“What?”

“Querida’s arm—­” She hesitated, gazing straight into his eyes in utter amazement.

“It wasn’t that?” she repeated.  “Was it?...  You never cared about such petty things, did you? Did you? Do you care?  Because I never dreamed that you cared....  What has a little imprudence—­a little silly mischief—­to do with our friendship? Has it anything to do with it?  You’ve never said anything—­and ...  I’ve flirted—­I’ve been spoons on men—­you knew it.  Besides, I’ve nearly always told you.  I’ve told you without thinking it could possibly matter to you—­to you of all men!  What do you care what I do?—­as long as I am to you what I have always been?”

“I—­don’t—­care.”

“Of course not.  How can you?” She leaned nearer, dark and curious gaze searching his.  Then, with a nervous laugh voicing the impossible—­“You are not in love with me—­that way.  Are you?” she asked, scarcely realising what she was saying.

“No,” he said, forcing a smile.  “Are you with me?”

She flushed scarlet: 

“Kelly, I never thought—­dreamed—­hoped—­” Her voice caught in her throat a moment; “I—­such a matter has not occurred to me.”  She looked at him partly dismayed, partly confused, unable now to understand him—­or even herself.

“You know—­that kind of love—­” she began—­“real love, never has happened to me.  You didn’t think that, did you?—­because—­just because I did flirt a little with you?  It didn’t mean anything serious—­anything of that kind.  Kelly, dear, have you mistaken me?  Is that what annoys you?  Were you afraid I was silly enough, mad enough to—­to really think of you—­in that way?”

“No.”

“Oh, I was sure you couldn’t believe it of me.  See how perfectly frank and honest I have been with you.  Why, you never were sentimental—­and a girl isn’t unless a man begins it!  You never kissed me—­except last summer when you were going away—­and both of our hearts were pretty full—­”

“Wait,” he said, suddenly exasperated, “are you trying to make me understand that you haven’t the slightest real emotion concerning me—­concerning me as a man—­like other men?”

She looked at him, still confused and distressed, still determined he should not misunderstand her: 

“I don’t know what you mean; truly I don’t.  I’m only trying to make you believe that I am not guilty of thinking—­wishing—­of pretending that in our frank companionship there lay concealed anything of—­of deeper significance—­”

“Suppose—­it were true?” he said.

“But it is not true!” she retorted angrily—­and looked up, caught his gaze, and her breath failed her.

“Suppose it were true—­for example,” he repeated.  “Suppose you did find that you or I were capable of—­deeper—­”