Gwynneth had raised her head slowly, and at last she spoke.
"We are not engaged, Sidney," she said quietly.
"Not—engaged?"
"It has never been a proper engagement."
"A proper engagement!" Sidney gasped. "Not a public one, if you like! What difference does that make?"
"No difference. It only makes it—easier——"
"What does it make easier?" he demanded fiercely.
Gwynneth was choking with humiliation. It was some moments before she could command her voice. Her distress was pitiful; but the young man was already busy pitying himself. A sudden change had come over Sidney. It was not in all respects a change for the worse. His cynical aplomb had already disappeared, leaving a tremulous, an angry, but a human being behind. So Gwynneth felt a leaning to him even at the last; but this time she knew her mind.
And she spoke it with equal candour and humility: it was all her fault: she could never forgive herself; but he would forgive her, when he saw for himself what the woman will always see quicker than the man. She liked him better than anybody she knew; that week at Cambridge had been the happiest week in her life; one day they would, they must, be good friends again. Meanwhile they had both made a miserable mistake. This was not love.
"Speak for yourself," cried Sidney, all bitterness and mortification. "And I never believed in a woman before," he groaned; "my God, I never shall again!"