"Oh, how cruel of you, Drake!" she murmured, "As if I hadn't suffered enough!"
He smiled down at her, with something as nearly approaching a sneer as Drake Selbie could bring himself to bestow upon a woman.
"Yes. Drake, did you think I was quite heartless? that—I—I—did what I did without suffering? Ah, no, you couldn't think that; you know me too well."
Her audacity brought a smile to his lips, and he found it difficult to restrain a laugh of amusement. It was because he had learned to know her so well that he himself had not suffered a pang at their broken engagement—at least, no pang since he had learned to know and love Nell.
Where was she? How could he get away from this woman, whose face was upturned to him with passionate pleading on it?
"Have you seen my uncle lately?" he asked grimly, but with a kind of suddenness.
"No," she replied, and the lie came "like truth"—so like truth that Drake felt ashamed of his suspicion of her motive.
She had not, then, heard of his uncle's offer? Then—then why was she moved at sight of him? Why were her eyes moist with unshed tears, the pressure of her hand on his arm tremulous and beseeching?
"No," she said; "I—I have been scarcely anywhere. I have—not been well. I came down here to the Chesneys' to bury myself—just to bury myself. I have been so wretched, so miserable, Drake."