His steady gaze embarrassed her. She was afraid that he might read the secret which lay deep in her heart. Rising abruptly from her seat by the window, she crossed the room, stopping near a side table to arrange some American beauty roses in a vase. Armitage rose and followed her.
"Tell me," he persisted eagerly. "Were you happier then than you are now?"
"Suppose we change the subject," she said hastily, without turning round. "Let us talk about you and your plans. So you're going to England?"
He nodded gravely.
"I sail on Saturday. I came to say good-by."
Grace nervously plucked one of the roses and crushed its soft, perfumed petals against her face. Her head still averted, she said: "But you'll come back?"
"No—never," he replied firmly.
She made no reply, and, as he could not see her face, he did not know that tears were in her eyes and that her lips were trembling. She could not speak without betraying her feelings. An awkward silence followed.
Armitage stood watching her. This girl loved him—he was convinced of that now. Only her pride was keeping them apart. A struggle for the mastery was going on within her, between her artificial self and her true self. One word from him and she would know that she had no reason to be ashamed of the man to whom she had given her love; that, on the contrary, she might be proud to be his wife. But that one word he was determined not to speak. He owed that much to his manhood, to his self-respect. This would be the crucial test. If she loved him, it must be for himself alone, not for his title. If he won her, he would proudly carry off the prize of two New York seasons—he, penniless, unknown, to all appearances an ordinary workman!
He moved forward so he could see her face.