"Upon my soul, I do!" cried Oliver, very sincerely.
"Then you never cared for me very much."
This was getting serious. Oliver had no mind to break off his engagement. He reserved the right to snub Ethel without giving offence. If this was an impracticable course to pursue, it was evident that he must abandon it and eat humble pie. Anything rather than part from her just now. He had lost the woman he loved: it would not do to lose also his only chance of winning a competency for himself and immunity from fear of want in the future.
"Ethel," he said, softly, "you grieve me very much. I acknowledge my faults of temper—I did not think you mistook then for a want of love."
"I do not think I do. It is something more real, more tangible than that."
"What is it, dear?"
She paused, then looked keenly into his face. "It seems to me, Oliver, that Lesley Brooke has won your heart away from me."
He threw back his head and laughed—a singularly jarring and unpleasant laugh, as it seemed to her. "What will you imagine next?" he said.
"Imagine? Have I imagined it? Isn't it true that you have been at her house almost every day for the last three or four weeks? Do you come here as often? Is it not Lesley that attracts you?—not me!"
"Oh, so you are jealous!"