now," she said. "Because I don't want you to tel me.
Jock seized the fingers and kissed them, and the accumulated vague emotions of the past two weeks crystallized all at once, took definite shape, came clamoring to be cried aloud that Yvonne might hear them. He knew, now. He was sure, now. "I've got to tell you," he said huskily. "I've got to—Yvonne—I love you, I love you so"
She broke away from him and stood up, silhouetted against the mantel, gazing at him. "Do you remember the last thing I said to you when you left here the other day?" she queried.
"Of course."
"What was it?"
"You said, 'I'm sorry for you'"
Yvonne nodded. "This is what I meant."
"You were sorry because you knew I'd fall in love with you? Yvonne"
"Listen to me!" She had silenced him with a gesture. "Listen, because I shall probably never tell you the truth again. You'll be unhappy if you love me. You'll be miserable. Oh, I know—I know you. You told me more about yourself that day at luncheon than you realize—more, much more, than you actually said. And I've thought about you, and I understand you. You're very young, and sensitive, and you have something precious. You have ideals. Don't you—can't you see how I would hurt you? You look at me and think, 'I love that woman.' You don't know. You don't know. Why, Jock Hamill, can't you see there's nothing here? Nothing inside that you would love? That's what I'm trying to tell you. I've only beauty. Skin deep. That's a platitude, but it's true with me. I'm nothing but—what was that word you used?
