She was lamentably without comparisons; such few young men as she had seen—white men—had been on the beach, pitiful and terrible objects. Fortescue rambled round the garden with soft, propitiatory steps, the Corinthian nose upraised and his hands behind his back, pausing to look long and hard at the fruit-trees against the wall. “You didn’t expect that I should kiss you?” “How was I to know that a man would—would think it was possible—when there was nothing—no love?” “How did I know there wasn’t love?” That silenced her for a moment. ” “I can’t imagine what makes you fly out against everything like this,” said Miss Stanley to her niece.
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