"Say it," she repeated, laughing uncertainly back into his smiling eyes of a boy.
"Say what?"
"That you are contented."
"I can't."
"Mr. Siward, it is unkind, it is shameless--"
"I know it; I am that sort."
"Then I am sorry for you. Look at that!" turning her left hand in his so that the jewel on the third finger caught the light.
"I see it."
"And yet--"
"And yet."
"That," she observed with composure, "is sheer obstinacy. … Isn't it?"
"It is what I said it was: a hopeful discontent."
"How can it be?" impatiently now, for the long, unaccustomed contact was unnerving her--yet she made no motion to withdraw her hands. "How can you really care for me? Do you actually believe that--devotion--comes like that?"
"Exactly like that."
"So suddenly? It is impossible!" with a twist of her pretty shoulders.
"How did it come--to you?" he asked between his teeth.
Then her face grew scarlet and her eyes grew dark, and her hands contracted in his--tightened, twisted fingers entangled, until, with a little sob, she swayed toward him and he caught her. An instant, a minute--more, perhaps, she did not know--she half lay in his arms, her untaught lips cold against his. Lassitude, faint consciousness, then tiny shock on shock came the burning revulsion; and her voice came back, too, sounding strangely to her, a colourless, monotonous voice.
He had freed her; she remembered that somebody had asked him to--perhaps herself. That was well; she needed to breathe, to summon strength and common-sense, find out what had been done, what reasonless madness she had committed in the half-light of the silver-stemmed trees clustering in shameful witness on every hand.
Suddenly the hot humiliation of it overwhelmed her, and she covered her face with her hands, standing, almost swaying, as wave on wave of incredulous shame seemed to sweep her from knee to brow. That phase passed after a while; out of it she emerged, flushed, outwardly composed, into another phase, in full self-possession once more, able to understand what had happened without the disproportion of emotional exaggeration. After all, she had only been kissed. Besides she was a novice, which probably accounted, in a measure, for the unreasonable emotion coincident with a caress to which she was unaccustomed. Without looking up at him she found herself saying coolly enough to surprise herself: "I never supposed I was capable of that. It appears that I am. I haven't anything to say for myself … except that I feel fearfully humiliated. … Don't say anything now … I do not blame you, truly I do not. It was contemptible of me--to do it--wearing this--" she stretched out her slender left hand, not looking at him; "it was contemptible!" … She slowly raised her eyes, summoning all her courage to face him.