"And would you give up Evert, engaged to him as you are, with your own consent and the consent of all your friends, for a mere fancy like this?"
"Mere fancy? I shall begin to think, Margaret, that you don't know what 'mere fancies,' as you call them, are!"
"And what view do you take of the fact that Lucian is a married man?" Margaret went on, gravely.
"A horribly melancholy one, of course. Still, it's a great pleasure just to see him; I try to see him as often as I can."
"And you're willing to follow him about as you do—let him see how much you like him, when, in reality, he doesn't care in the least for you? If he had cared he would never have left you, as he did last winter, at a moment's notice and without a word."
"No, I know he doesn't care for me as I care for him," said Garda. "But perhaps he will care more in time; I have thought that perhaps he would care more when he found out how I felt towards him; that is what I have been hoping."
Margaret got up, she made a motion with her hands almost as if she were casting the girl off. "Garda," she said, "you frighten me. I have tried to speak with the greatest moderation, because I have not thought you realized at all what you were saying; but you are so calm, you speak in such a tone!—I cannot understand it."
"Well, Margaret, I've never tried to understand it myself. Why, then, should you try?" said Garda, in her indolent way.
Then, as she looked at Margaret, she became conscious of the marked change in her face, and it seemed to startle her. She rose and came to her. "One thing I know," she said, quickly, "if you are vexed with me, so vexed that you will have nothing more to do with me, I don't know what will become of me. You are the only woman I care for. Don't throw me over, Margaret. There's one thing that may happen," she added, looking at her friend with luminous gaze, "I may stop caring for Lucian of my own accord before long; you know I stopped caring for Evert."
"Oh, Garda! Garda!" murmured Margaret, putting her hand over her eyes.