There was a harsh laugh—almost a sob. "Winnie! Do I care? I suppose I do. Sometimes it seems to me—I care for nothing—nothing else—only for you. Tell me the truth now,—tell me plainly! Was it you— you yourself!—who gave me up?"
She looked at him sorrowfully, wondering if she had been wrong to stop.
He spoke again in the same hoarse faint voice. "Tell me—it was not you who wrote that letter!"
"I did write it, Dick!"—and he made a sharp turn as if to go; but her hand was on his arm. "Let me explain, please. I did write it. Mother helped me with the wording—but—I thought it had to be. I had just come across Jane—and I felt as if I never could endure to belong to—her."
"That was it, then!"
"Yes; that was it."
"And you never gave a thought to—what it would mean to me!"
Doris's hand still rested gravely on his arm. She said no more, and his face was set as if in iron. But the strain was too great, and his self-control broke. He seized her hand, and kissed it stormily. Twice again came that strange short laugh, almost like a sob.
"Is there no hope—none?" he struggled to say.
"My father will not allow it, Dick. And I never will marry without his consent. But—I can say so much as this, that I do know my own mind now. I know that at least I couldn't marry anybody else. If that is any comfort—"