He stopped and faced him. "Why were you so anxious for me to marry her?" he said. "I've got to know that."
He was instantly aware that Saltash eluded him, even though he seemed to meet his look as he made reply. "You are quite welcome to know it, mon ami. I chance to take a fatherly interest in you both."
Bunny flinched a little. Something in the light reply had pierced him though he could not have said how. "That's all?" he asked rather thickly.
"That is quite all," said Saltash, and faintly smiled—the smile of the practised swordsman behind the blade.
Bunny stood for some moments regarding him, his boyish face stern and troubled. Up to that point, against his will, he had believed him; from it, he believed him no longer. But—he faced the truth however it might gall him—he was pitted against a skilled fencer, and he was powerless. Experience could baffle him at every turn.
"Do you tell me you have never realized that she cared for you?" he blurted forth abruptly, and there was something akin to agony in his utterance of the words. He knew that he was baring his breast for the stroke as he forced them out.
But Saltash did not strike. Just for an instant he showed surprise. Then—quite suddenly he lowered his weapon. He faced Bunny with a smile of comradeship.
"Quite honestly, Bunny," he said, "if I had realized it, it wouldn't have made any difference. I have no use for sentimental devotion at my age. She has never been more to me than—a puppy that plays with your hand."
"Ah," Bunny said, and swung away from him with the words. "I suppose that is how you treat them all. Women and dogs—they're very much alike."
"Not in every respect," said Saltash. "I should say that Toby is an exception anyway. She knows play from earnest."