It was evident
that her wonted composure had been seriously disturbed by the unlucky
circumstance of the photograph. He had permitted the time and
occasion which had prompted him to write those three fatefully
familiar words on the back of the picture altogether to escape him.
If he chose to forget, why should Fanny Dodge, or any one else,
persist in remembering?
And above all, why should the girl have chosen to drop this absurd
memento of the most harmless of flirtations at the feet of Lydia?
There could be but one reasonable explanation.... Confound women,
anyway!
"I had not meant to speak, yet," he went on, out of the clamoring
multitude of his thoughts. "I felt that we ought--"
He became suddenly aware of Lydia's eyes. There was no soft answering
fire, no maidenly uncertainty of hope and fear in those clear depths.
"It is very difficult for me to talk of this to you," she said
slowly. "You will think me over-bold--unmannerly, perhaps. But I
can't help that. I should never have thought of your caring for
me--you will at least do me the justice to believe that."
"Lydia!" he interrupted, poignantly distressed by her evident
timidity--her exquisite hesitation, "let me speak! I understand--I
know--"
She forbade him with a gesture, at once pleading and peremptory.
"No," she said. "No! I began this, I must go on to the end. What you
ought to understand is this: I am not like other women. I want only
friendship from every one. I shall never ask more.
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