She started as if stung. "Oh no! Oh no! Of course he hasn't! He—he doesn't care for me—like that. Why should he?"
Eustace's grim lips twitched a little. "Why indeed? Well, it's lucky for him he hasn't. If he had, I'd have half killed him for it!"
There was concentrated savagery in his tone. His eyes shone with a fire that made her shrink. And then very suddenly he put his hand upon her shoulder.
"Do you mean to tell me that you want to throw me over solely because you imagine you care for a man who doesn't care for you?" he asked.
She looked up at him piteously, "Oh, please don't ask me any more!" she said.
"But I want to know," he said stubbornly. "Is that your only reason?"
With difficulty she answered him. "No."
"Then what more?" he demanded.
It was inevitable. She made a desperate effort to be brave. "I couldn't be happy with you. I am afraid of you. And—and—you are not kind to—to Isabel."
"Who says I am not kind to Isabel?" His hand pressed upon her ominously; his look was implacably stern.