"It is this man Stretton, then?" said Percival, quietly.
A sudden rush of colour to her face assured him that he had guessed the truth. "I always suspected him," he muttered.
"You had no need. He behaved as honourably as possibly. He did not know of my engagement to you."
"Honourably? A penniless adventurer making love to one of the richest women in Scotland!"
"You mistake, Percival. He did not know that I was rich."
"A likely story!"
"You insult him—and me," said Elizabeth, in a very low tone. "If you have no pity, have some respect—for him—if you have none for me." And then she burst into an agony of tears, such as he had never seen her shed before. But he was pitiless still. The wound was very deep: his pain very sharp and keen.
"Have you had any pity for me?" he said. "Why should I pity him? To my mind, he is the most enviable man on earth, because he has your love. Respect him, when he has stolen from me the thing that I value more than my life! You do not know what you say."
She still wept, and presently he sat down beside her and leaned his head on his hand, looking at her from out of the shadow made by his bent fingers above his eyes.
"Let me understand matters clearly," he said. "You sent him away, and he has gone to America, never to return. Is that it? And you will marry me, although you do not love me, because you have promised to do so, if I ask you? What do you expect me to say?"