"
"Yes," he said, "that, of course, is the reason. I wonder--do you
suppose that--in time--perhaps--you might care for me--that way?"
"I don't know." She glanced up at him fearfully, fascinated, yet
repelled. "I don't know," she repeated pitifully. "Is it--can't you help
thinking of me in that way? Can't you be as you were?"
"No, I can no longer help it. I don't want to help it, Eileen."
"But--I wish you to," she said in a low voice. "It is that which is
coming between us. Oh, don't you see it is? Don't you feel it--feel what
it is doing to us? Don't you understand how it is driving me back into
myself? Whom am I to go to if not to you? What am I to do if your
affection turns into this--this different attitude toward me? You were
so perfectly sweet and reasonable--so good, so patient; and now--and now
I am losing confidence in you--in myself--in our friendship.
I'm no longer frank with you; I'm afraid at times--afraid and
self-conscious--conscious of you, too--afraid of what seemed once the
most natural of intimacies.
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