He has shown me so much
kindness. Yet I think--I am sure--that I liked him from the first
moment I saw him."
She nodded.
"I like him too. I cannot help it. Yet one can be with him, can live
in the same house for weeks, even months, and remain an utter stranger
to him. He has self-repression which is marvellous--never at
fault--never a joint loose. One wonders so much what lies beyond. One
would like to know."
"Is it wise?" he asked. "After all, is it our concern?
"Not ours. But if you were a woman would you be content to take him on
trust?"
"It would depend upon my own feelings," he answered, hesitatingly.
"Whether you cared for him?"
"Yes!"
She beat the floor with her foot.
"You are wrong," she said, "I am sure that you are wrong. To care for
one is to wish ever to believe the best of them. It is better to keep
apart for ever than to run any risks. Supposing that unknown past was
of evil, and one discovered it. To care for him would only make the
suffering keener."
"It may be so," he admitted. "May I ask you something?"
"Well?"
"You speak--of yourself?"
Her eyes met his, and he looked hastily downwards.
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