“And who told you of that scene?” I questioned sharply, and with a burning sense of shame.
“Who? George Irving, of course. It sent him abroad a whole year before the time allotted to him.”
“And he told you this?”
“Certainly, why not? Did you suppose me merely Irving’s tutor?” he answered, with a strange smile.
“Why, what else are you?” I demanded.
“His friend—his confidant.”
Something in his manner put me upon my guard that evening;, and I was disinclined to continue the conversation; but he was not a man to be evaded in anything. He followed up the subject with pertinacity, and every time Irving’s name was mentioned I felt his eyes penetrating to my very thoughts. As we entered the park, I was about to turn down an avenue that led to my home, but he laid one hand on my arm and gently detained me.
“Zana,” he said, “listen to me—for one moment throw off this haughty reserve. It chills me—it is cruel, for you know that I love you—love you, Zana, as man never loved woman. Now before our little Eden is broken up by these haughty Clares—now, while I have you all to myself, let me say it!”
I looked at him in amazement. The words he had spoken seemed like sacrilege; for, to a heart that really loves, there is a sort of profanity in expressions of passion from other than the true lips.
“Zana—Zana, you are ice—you are marble—my words freeze you—this is no answer to love like mine.”