"Ambitions which you set above your love, above everything," Rosemary broke in, and turned to look him straight in the eyes. "You talk of love, Peter," she went on with sudden vehemence, while the sharp words came tumbling out at last as if from the depths of her overburdened heart. "What do you know of love? You are quite right, I did lay in your arms that night, loving you with my whole being, my soul seeking yours and finding it in that unforgettable kiss. My God! How I could have loved you, Peter! But you? What were your thoughts of me the next day, and the next day after that, whilst I waited in suspense which turned to torture for a word from you that would recall that hour? What were your thoughts? Where were you? I was waiting for you at the Lascelles as you had promised you would come over from Oxford the very next day. You did not come—not for days—weeks——"
"Rosemary!"
"Not for days—weeks——" she insisted, "and I waited for a sign—a letter——"
"Rosemary, at the time you understood!"
"I only understood," she retorted with cold irony, "that you blamed yourself for having engaged my young affections—that you had your way to make in the world before you could think of asking a girl to share your poverty—and so on—and so on—every time we met—and in every letter you wrote—whilst I——
"Whilst you did not understand, Peter," she went on more calmly. "Whilst you spoke of the future, of winning fame and fortune——"
"For you, Rosemary!" he cried involuntarily, and buried his head in his hands. "I was only thinking of you——"
"You were not thinking of me, Peter, or you would have known that there was no poverty or toil I would not gladly have shared with the man I loved."
"Yes, poverty—toil—on an equal footing, Rosemary; but you were rich, famous: already you had the world at your feet——"
"And you did not care for me enough, Peter," she said with a note of fatality in her voice, "to accept wealth, comfort, help in your career from me——"