"I--never really thought--I could cut her out."
"Is that what you did it for?" An odd note sounded in Sir Eustace's
voice, as though some irony of circumstance had forced his sense of
humour.
"Just at first," whispered Dinah. "Oh, don't be angry! Please don't be
angry! You--you weren't in earnest either just at first."
He considered the matter in silence for a few moments. Then
half-quizzically, "I don't see that that is any reason for throwing me
over now," he said. "If you don't love me to-day, you will to-morrow."
She shook her head.
"Quite sure?" he said.
"Quite," she answered faintly.
His hand was still upon her head, and it remained there. He held her
closely pressed to him.
For a space again he was silent, his dark face bent over her, his lips
actually touching her hair. Of what was passing in his mind she had no
notion, and she dared not lift her head to look. She dreaded each moment
a return of that tornado-like passion that had so often appalled her.
But it did not come. His arms held her indeed, but without violence, and
in his stillness there was no tension to denote its presence.
He spoke at length, almost whispering. "Dinah, who is the lucky fellow?
Tell me!"
She started away from him. She almost cried out in her dismay. But he
stopped her. He took her face between his hands with an insistence that
would not be denied.
Pages:
432
433
434
435
436
437
438
439
440
441
442
443
444
445
446
447
448
449
450
451
452
453
454
455
456