"You don't care for her; say you don't care for her," I sob, entreatingly.
"Phyllis, how can you ask me? To care for that worldly-wise woman, when I have you to love, my own darling my angel!"
This is comforting; it almost sounds as though he were calling her bad names, and I sob on contentedly from the shelter of his arms.
"And you will never speak to her again, will you, dear 'Duke?"
"Oh, my pet! You forget she is a guest in the house. How can I avoid speaking and being civil to her?"
"Of course I don't mean that. But you will have no tete-a-tete and you won't be so attentive to her and you will be very glad when she goes away?"
"I will indeed, be most sincerely delighted, if her staying causes you one moment's unhappiness. She speaks of leaving next week; let us be polite to her for these few remaining days—poor Blanche!—and then we will forget she ever lived."
"Yes," I acquiesce, and then there is a pause in the conversation. Is he not going to touch on the other cause of war? For a little time I am filled with wonderment; then I say, shyly, "You do not ask me about Mark Gore?"
"No." replies he, hastily, "nor will I. I understand everything; I believe all you said. A misconception arose between us: now it is at rest forever, let us refer to it no more. Now that it is at an end, I feel rather flattered at your being so jealous; it tells me you must be getting to care for me a little."
"Oh, caring is a poor thing. I think now I love you better than any one in the world, except—-"