"Yes, I know," answered Loveland dejectedly. But his depression arose, not so much from the consciousness of wrongdoing, as from the suspicion engendered by the girl's tone in speaking of Sidney Cremer. Cremer's interests and hers were "closely allied"! She had blushed and even faltered a little, as she made the statement, and Val sprang instantly to the conclusion that she was engaged to marry Cremer.
It had never occurred to him, when they played at platonic friendship on board the Mauretania, that Lesley Dearmer might be engaged. She had never said in so many words that she was not, but she hadn't at all the manner of a girl who had disposed of her future. In any case, however, whether the affair were new or of old standing, Loveland felt miserably certain that she was engaged now. And he stood convicted of defrauding the man whom she intended to marry. Was there any depth of wretchedness or of humiliation which the thirteenth Marquis of Loveland had not plumbed at last?
"You admit that you knew, and yet you produced and played in the piece?"
"I did. But——" he hesitated. Should he attempt to excuse himself, to disclaim responsibility, or would that only seem cowardly in her eyes?
"But—what? You see, I'm bound to report to my friend."
"Your friend!" broke out Loveland, losing his head. "You are going to marry him!"
"Sidney Cremer?"
"Yes. You don't deny it."
She laughed gently. "Why should I deny it—to you? Have you any right to question me, or bring me to book—about anything, Mr. Gordon?"
"I know I have no right," he admitted. "Forgive me." He guessed that her emphasis, and her frequent repetition of the name "Gordon" meant that she wished him to understand the change in their relationship. To her he was now only Gordon the actor, who had stolen Sidney Cremer's play. The past was to be forgotten.