"Duplicity? Do you call it duplicity for me to be telling you every single thing I think and feel, as I have done to-day?"
"I was speaking of Mrs. Harold."
"Duplicity and Margaret!" exclaimed Garda.
They had reached the end of the orange aisle, and she no longer had his arm. "I can't discuss her with you, Garda," he said. And he went out into the sunshine beyond.
But Garda followed him. She came round, placed her hands on his shoulders, and pushed him with soft violence back into the shade. "Why do you speak so of her? you shall tell me. Why shouldn't I trust her? But I do and I will in spite of you!"
"Do you mean to marry that man, Garda?" asked Winthrop, at last, as she stood there holding him, her eyes on his, thinking of her no longer as the young girl of his fancy, but as the woman.
"I don't know," answered Garda, her tone altering; "perhaps he won't care for me."
"But if he should care?"
"Oh!" murmured the girl, the most lovely, rapturous smile lighting up her face.
Winthrop contemplated her for a moment. "Very well, then, I think I ought to tell you: she cares for Lucian herself."