"At all events you pretended to be fond of me."
"I never pretend anything," says Rylton, whose soul seems torn in twain.
"You did," cries Tita wildly. "You did." She brushes her tears aside, and looks up at him—her small, delicate face flushed—her eyes on fire! "You promised you would be kind to me."
"I promised nothing," in a dull sort of way. He feels crushed, unable to move. "It was you who arranged everything; I was to go my way, and you yours."
"It was liberal, at all events."
"And useless!" There is a prophetic note in his voice. "As you would have gone your way, whether or no."
"And you, yours!"
"I don't know about that. But your way—where does that lead? Now, look here, Tita,"—he takes a step towards her—"you are bent on following that way. But mark my words, bad will come of it."
"Nothing bad will come of my way!" says Tita distinctly.
Her eyes are fixed on his. For a full minute they regard each other silently. How much does she know? Rylton's very soul seems harassed with this question. That old story! A shock runs through him as he says those last words to himself. Is it old? That story? Marian! What is she to him now?