“Same thing. If I were to ask you whether you’d ever cared for anybody, I might perhaps believe your answer, if you would give me one?” he suggested diffidently. “Well, I haven’t. I haven’t had time to think about that sort of thing,” said Miss Davison, in a matter-of-fact tone. “Really? Never?” “Word of honor. Of course you can’t say that. Or, if you did, I shouldn’t believe _you_.” “Why should I be disbelieved more than you on such a point?” “Because it’s one, I think, upon which no man tells the truth to a woman.” “Don’t you think you will ever care for anybody?” She hesitated, and once again that pretty, faint tinge of pink color came into her cheeks. “I don’t say,” she answered, in a dreamy and gentle tone, “that it might not be possible. But it would make no difference. I have laid down a plan of life, and I mean to keep to it. The sort of sentiment you mean has no place in it.” “But why not? Isn’t there any pleasure in--the sort of sentiment I mean?” “Oh, yes, I daresay there is. In fact,” and a faint smile appeared on her face, one of those charming smiles that flitted over her face from time to time so lightly that they illuminated the eyes rather than stretched the muscles of the mouth, “I may say I’m sure of it.” “Then why be so stoical?” “Well, because, for one thing, I’m convinced that the better I’m known the less I’m likely to be loved--” “That I deny!” She turned upon him with pretty scorn. “What matters your denial?” she said. “I _know_!” “You don’t know what love is--I must say the word,” said he with passion. “I’ve tried to call it everything else, but the real name must come. I love you, Rachel, I’ve told you so, and the more I know you the more I love you.”