But instead, Marjorie moved restlessly to the window, and looked out upon the trim luxuriance of the rose-filled garden. Her courage was oozing fast in face of his kindness and the old associations.
"I came to tell you," she said slowly, "that what I said the other day was wrong. I have found out—that I cannot——"
"I know, Marjorie. No need to say it," he said softly.
"I have behaved very badly," she went on. "I let you think I cared for you. I did not know—then. I never did care. I never can—I know now." Unconsciously her tone took a note of triumph, which made her hearer wince. He forced himself to reply:
"It was a mistake, dear. I realised that it was only a chance—that you were but a child whom I have loved very dearly. That is it, Marjorie. That is how it is between us."
She lifted her foot over the threshold of the window, and the straying rose-branches fell about her. She looked very slight and young, as she stood there for a moment, the sun burnishing the bright tendrils of her hair into a halo round her face. The man's soul went out in a sigh of longing as he saw the beauty of the picture—saw her standing as he had dreamt she would stand, his own loved possession, in her home.
"I think you will be happy," he forced himself to say; "I think Mr. Pelham——"
She put up her hands to ward off his speech.
She put up her hands to ward off his speech, and her face grew scarlet.