She paused a moment before she answered, calmly, “No! Again I ask what do you mean?”
“What do I mean? Do you forget that we are betrothed? Do you forget how often, and how recently, our vows of affection and constancy have been exchanged?”
“No, I do not forget; but I must have deceived you and myself—”
“It is true, then, that you love me no more?”
“I suppose so.”
“But, oh, Lilian, is it that your heart is only closed to me; or is it—oh, answer truthfully—is it given to another,—to him—to him—against whom I warned you, whom I implored you not to receive? Tell me, at least, that your love is not gone to Margrave—”
“To him! love to him! Oh, no—no—”
“What, then, is your feeling towards him?”
Lilian’s face grew visibly paler, even in that dim light. “I know not,” she said, almost in a whisper; “but it is partly awe—partly—”
“What?”