"I can," he said boldly. "I've known there was another fellow, ever since the first night I met you. But I've been hoping against hope that he didn't count. Does he count then?"
Olga turned sharply from him. She was suddenly trembling. "No!" she whispered.
He drew a step nearer to her. "Olga—forgive me—is that the truth?"
She controlled herself and turned back to him. "There is no one in India who would have sent me this," she said. "I can't account for it—in any way. Please forgive me for accusing you of what you haven't done. And—and—"
She stopped short, for he had caught her hands in an eager, boyish clasp. "Olga, don't—there's a dear!" he begged with headlong ardour. "I don't love you any the less because I didn't do it. I believe myself it's a beastly hoax, and I'm just as furious as you are. But, I say, can't we found a partnership on it? Is it asking too much? Pull me up if it is! I don't want to be premature. Only I won't have you sick or sorry about it, anyhow so far as I am concerned. You were quite right in thinking that I loved you. I do, dear, I do!"
"But you mustn't!" she said. She left her hands in his, but the face she raised was tired and sad and unresponsive. "I feel a dreadful pig, Noel," she said, speaking as if it were an effort. "I almost made you say it, didn't I? And it's just the one thing I mustn't let you say. You're so nice, so kind, such a jolly friend. But you're not—not—not—"
"Not eligible as a husband," suggested Noel.
"Don't use that horrid adjective!" she protested. "You make me feel worse and worse."
He laughed, his sudden, boyish laugh. "No, but there's nothing to feel bad about, really. And you didn't make me say it. I said it because I wanted to. Also, you're not bound to take me seriously. I'm not always in earnest—as you may have discovered. Look here, you've warned me off. Can't we talk about something else now?"
"If you're sure you don't mind," she said, smiling rather wistfully.