“Willy,” I cried suddenly, “why did you do it? Why did you do it?”
“I can’t tell you—I had to. Maybe, some day——” he broke off. “I must go. Will you say ‘Good-bye’ to me?”
“I will,” I said, carried away by the restrained misery of his voice, and putting my arms round his neck. “You’ve been too good to me—oh, Willy, my dear, I’ve brought you nothing but bad luck. Good-bye.”
I kissed his cheek—he was my only cousin, and I was never going to see him again—and then I tried to draw myself away from the grasp that was tightening round me, but it was too late.
“I’ll never say ‘Good-bye’ to you,” he said fiercely, straining me to him. “I won’t let you go till you tell me if you meant what you said to me in the wood. Was it me you cared for, after all?”
“Don’t ask me, Willy,” I implored. “Let me go!”
“I won’t!” he answered, with reckless passion, trying to press his lips against mine.
I put my hands over my face, with a shrinking which told me in a moment the depth of the self-delusion which had carried me to the point of saying I would marry him. He must be told the truth now, no matter what it cost.
“I meant that I was fond of you,” I said; “but I never was in love with you.”
“I see,” he said bitterly. He let me go at once. “Then it was Nugent, after all.”