“You frighten me,” she murmured.  “You—­hurt me.”

He released her.  “What do you want?” he cried.  “Don’t you care at all?”

“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?”