Frank, whom the sudden movement seemed to awaken as from a dream, glanced for a moment almost angrily at his companion, then he settled back in his seat, saying nothing till the lights of the tavern became visible, when he roused himself and inquired:
"Who is that girl, Edgar, and how did she become so disfigured?"
"I don't know," was the short reply; "she has always been so, I believe, at least since I remember seeing her. It looks like the scar of a wound, but I have never heard any explanation given of it."
"Her name, Edgar?"
"Hermione Cavanagh."
"You know her?"
"Somewhat."
"Are you"—the words came with a pant, shortly, intensely, and as if forced from him—"in love—with her?"
"No." Edgar's passion seemed for the moment to be as great as that of the other. "How came you to think of such a thing?"
"Because—because," Frank whispered almost humbly, "you seemed so short in your replies, and because, I might as well avow it, she seems to me one to command the love of all men."