“I have a right to put the question to you, I think.”
“Well, I disagree with you, and absolutely decline to discuss it. You must have seen very little of the English in South Africa if your experiences have led you to believe that it is our custom to exchange confidences with a stranger. Possibly after you and I have had our proposed chat over our mutual experiences out there and get to know one another better, we may resume the subject. But not until then, if you please. And now, I must bid you good-night.”
He looked very angry and malicious; but I did not care for that. I was rather pleased than otherwise that Miralda should have spoken of me to him in such a way as to rouse his jealousy.
Sleep was almost out of the question for me that night. I was in a positive fever of unrest.
Did Miralda care for me? If so, why had she promised to marry Sampayo?
Over and over again I recalled every word that had passed between us that evening, and every glance she had given me. The first look at the moment of meeting had been one of surprise, but I had read no other feeling into it.
She had, however, been genuinely indignant when she heard that only business had brought me. And she had every right. I had carried matters far enough in Paris to warrant her in believing I cared for her. I had done everything I could to make my feelings plain. Then I had gone without a word, had remained away four months, and had now arrived “on business.” It was only human nature that she should resent such treatment.
Unexplained, my conduct was that of a cad and a coxcomb. She might well believe that in Paris I had spoken without meaning, had been amusing myself with a flirtation, and had forgotten her as soon as I had shaken the dust of the city off my feet. To follow to Lisbon on such an errand as the visconte had described and I had acquiesced in, was nothing short of a brutal insult to her.
But while her resentment was white-hot, I had made her see the truth. Her eyes had told me that she understood. And the explanation had shifted the axis of all her thoughts. I had come solely on her account, hurrying to her at the first moment I was at liberty to speak the words which had been impossible in Paris, and—she had pledged herself to another man.
If she cared for me—always that if—she would find herself playing the part she believed I had played. The charge of inconstancy was transferred from my shoulders to hers. And she had to face the task of telling me the truth. Her sudden agitation was intelligible enough. And she had undoubtedly been very deeply moved. That thought was as balm in Gilead to me.