“Yes, Robert. I love him.”
It took all the courage she possessed. But she owed it to him and to herself.
“I don’t believe it!” he blurted out. “I won’t believe it! You are not yourself, Marion. You are worn out. You have been fascinated. He’s strange––different––new to you. It’s your imagination, not your heart, that’s been––won. He’s led you on by––”
“No!” she broke in. “You’re quite wrong. It’s not his fault at all. He doesn’t love me.”
“Of course not. I know that kind of fellow. You didn’t need to leave New York to find plenty like him. He only wants to––”
“Robert!” she cried warningly.
“Then what––”
“He hates me, I think,” she replied sadly.
“Then why in the world do you––” He was floundering. “What do you know about him, anyhow? Who is he? Where did he come from?”