‘As she is certainly the truest and best.’ Geff had got back his self-possession. He spoke his credo as valiantly as though Marjorie Bartrand’s eyes were not fixed upon him. ‘And so,’ he found voice to say, ‘you could actually believe, on hearsay evidence, that a girl like Dinah would have chosen me for her husband, and I—have neglected her?’
Geoffrey laughed, not very joyously; then, taking up another copy-book, he glanced with mechanical show of attention over a sentence or two of Marjorie’s Latin translation. He held the page upside down—a fact which her memory, in after times, might recall as significant.
‘I honestly believed you to be married. Have you forgotten the first evening you walked out to Tintajeux—that evening when I told you the Bon Espoir was a good omen for our friendship?’
‘A fortnight ago to-day. I have not forgotten it.’
‘I looked upon you as my friend before I saw you. I had heard your history—the history, it would seem, of your cousin Gaston! I honoured a man who had had the courage of his opinions. I respected, I drew to you on account of the wife you had chosen. And now, Mr. Arbuthnot,’ exclaimed Marjorie hotly, ‘the comedy of errors is finished. I have learned my mistake, you see. And I trust that my apology has been sufficient.’
This time Geoffrey broke into a fit of wholesome, unconstrained laughter.
‘I am afraid I see through everything, Miss Bartrand. Your apologies say too much. I have been treated with humanity by accident, and may count upon dark days for the future. That I am not married is my misfortune,’ he added, watching her face,—‘a misfortune which, if I could only thereby re-establish myself in your favour, I would gladly remedy.’
‘Would you?... do you mean ...’
And then, looking up into her tutor’s eyes, Marjorie knew that they were both of them talking unwisdom, were trenching as nearly on the forbidden ground of sentiment as a young man and woman who had met for the hard study of classics and mathematics could well do.