"I thought I was coming to your wedding," he
remarked. "That's as far as I've got at present."
She made a gesture of impatience. "Do you never think of the future?"
"Not in your presence," laughed Nick. "I think of you--you--and only
you. Didn't you know?"
She turned away in silence. Was he tormenting her deliberately? Or did
he fail to see that she was in earnest?
There followed a pause, and then, urged by that unknown impulse that
would not be repressed, she did a curious thing. She got up, and,
facing him, she made a very earnest appeal.
"Nick, why do you always treat me like this? Why will you never be
honest with me?"
There was more of pain than reproach in the words. Her voice was deep
and very sad.
But Nick scarcely looked at her. He was pulling tufts of dried seaweed
off the rock on which he leaned.
"My dear girl," he said, "how can you expect it?"
"Expect it!" she echoed. "I don't understand. What do you mean?"
He drew himself slowly to a sitting posture. "How can I be honest with
you," he said, "when you are not honest with yourself?"
"What do you mean?" she said again.
He gave her an odd look. "You really want me to tell you?"
"Of course I do." She spoke sharply. The old scared feeling was awake
within her, but she would not yield to it.
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