“No matter,” said she. “The mischief is done.”
“You do not give up a friend lightly,” rejoined I. The time to speak was at hand; I welcomed it.
“He has asked me to give you up,” said she simply. “And I shall do it.”
“But he has no right to ask such a thing,” protested I.
“Yes—he has. He and I are engaged—you knew that?”
“I imagined there was some sort of an engagement,” said I, still waiting for the right opening.
“There is only one sort of engagement possible with me,” replied she, with a certain gentle reproach.
“I know that,” said I. “But I remember the talk we had on the yacht.”
A flush overspread her paleness for a moment. Then she rose from the little rustic iron chair. “We must go,” said she.
“Wait,” said I. And I made a tactless, a stupid beginning: “You can’t deny that you do not love him.”