Loftus was about to interrupt. She checked him. “The first time I saw you I was just fifteen. That is eight years ago. Since then I can honestly say that until I accepted Arthur I had never thought of anyone but you. Never. Not once. Can you realize now how this affair of yours affected me? It hurt. If it had not been for that, do you suppose I would have taken the prince in the fairy tale? You were my prince.”
“But,” Loftus protested, “this affair, as you call it, came about only faute de mieux, faute de toi . Why cannot I—why cannot we—?”
Fanny checked him again. “No, we cannot. Two years ago you said the same thing to me. I forgave you then because I loved you. For the same reason I forgive you now. But, however I care for you, never will I be your mistress.”
“Fanny—”
“No, never. If, as again and again you have told me during the past few months, you still care for me, either you must love me openly or I will not permit you to love me at all.”
At the sudden horizon Loftus bent to her. “Let us go, then. In Europe we can love before all the world.”
Fanny drew back. “Particularly before all the half-world,” she answered with a sniff. “No. You misunderstand me. Perhaps, too, I misunderstand you. Let my hand be.”
“Fanny, I will do anything—”
“It is rather late to say that. But if I were free now, what would you do? Would you repeat the invitation you have made?”