"Brigit," he said, clearing his throat, "do you love me?"
"Love you?" she faltered. "What do you mean?"
"I mean that for thirty-six hours I have doubted you, and that I have been——" He broke off short, his vivid face intensely expressive.
"But why? Thirty-six hours? That means that—but I did not even see you yesterday!"
He stood, his arms hanging by his sides, looking at her without a word. Then, when the pause had grown unbearable, he returned slowly: "The night before last I saw you with Théo—on the lawn."
A painful blush burnt her face, and, unwontedly abashed, she turned away. It seemed to her almost monstrous that Joyselle should have witnessed the little scene in the moonlight.
"You—you saw him kiss me?" she faltered.
"Yes. But that was not the worst. He held open his arms to you, and—you went to him as if—as if you were giving yourself to him."
"I was, Victor. Surely you understand. He is so good, Théo—so very good. And I have promised to marry him, and he has been patient, and I have treated him horribly. The longer I know him the better—I like him. Surely you can't mind that?"
Joyselle did not raise his hand. He was, she saw with a curious sensation of detachment, undergoing a severe struggle.