"That is for Miss Beresford to decide."
"She has decided," says Desmond, growing even paler, but never removing his eyes from his rival's. He is playing a dangerous game, but even in the danger is ecstasy. And, as Monica continues silent, a great joy fills his soul.
"But until"—begins the Englishman, doggedly—"I hear——"
"Mrs. Bohun's cup is causing her embarrassment. See to it," interrupts Desmond, unemotionally. And then, turning to Monica, he says, "Come," coldly, but with such passionate entreaty in his eyes that she is borne away by it, and goes with him submissively across the lawn, until she has so far withdrawn herself from her companions that a return would be undignified.
They go as far as the entrance to the orchard, a good quarter of a mile, in silence, and then the storm breaks.
"I won't have that fellow holding you in his arms," says Desmond, pale with grief and rage, standing still and confronting her.
"I thought you said you would never be jealous again," says Monica, who has had time to recover herself, and time, too, to grow angry.
"I also said I hoped you would never give me cause."
"Mrs. Bohun has arranged this tableau."
"Then disarrange it."