"No: it is no lovers' quarrel," with an odd change of expression: "we have had little time for quarreling, she and I: our days for love-making were so short, so sweet!"
There is a pause: then in a clear harsh voice, in which no faintest particle of feeling can be traced, he goes on: "Her husband is alive; he is coming home. After all,"—with a short unlovely laugh, sad through its very bitterness,—"we worried ourselves unnecessarily, as she was not, what we so feared, a widow."
"Cyril!" exclaims Lilian; she is trembling visibly, and gazes at him as though fearing he may have lost his senses.
"I would not have troubled you about this matter," continues Cyril, not heeding the interruption, and addressing the room generally, without permitting himself to look at any one, "but that it is a fact that must be known sooner or later; I thought the sooner the better, as it will end your anxiety and convince you that this mesalliance you so dreaded,"—with a sneer,—"can never take place."
Guy, who has come close to him, here lays his hand upon his arm.
"Do not speak to us as though we could not feel for you," he says, gently, pain and remorse struggling in his tone, "believe me——"
But Cyril thrusts him back.
"I want neither sympathy nor kind words now," he says, fiercely: "you failed me when I most required them, when they might have made her happy. I have spoken on this subject now once for all. From this moment let no one dare broach it to me again."
Guy is silent, repentant. No one speaks; the tears are running down Lilian's cheeks.
"May not I?" she asks, in a distressed whisper. "Oh, my dear! do not shut yourself up alone with your grief. Have I not been your friend? Have not I, too, loved her? poor darling! Cyril, let me speak to you of her sometimes."