But Jill seemed to find a difficulty in answering, or a disinclination to do so; for she drew herself up and remained silent, an angry spot of colour in either cheek. St. John tapped the floor impatiently with his boot.
“Come, come,” he cried, “this is childish to accuse a fellow of some possibly imaginary wrong, and not give him the chance of refuting it. What heinous offence do you fancy me guilty of? Robbing a bank? I haven’t I assure you.”
He was turning her doubts of him to ridicule which only angered her the more. There was a gleam of amusement in his eyes and his moustache twitched ever so slightly.
“What! sceptical of that even?” he continued ironically. “So it’s my honesty that’s called into question, eh?”
“Yes,” Jill flashed back with a fierceness born of wounded pride, “your honesty, Mr St. John. Is it honest of you to come and make love to me? No, you know it is not, it is dishonourable, despicable—”
“Stop a bit,” he interrupted with a quietness and control which surprised himself; “don’t let us lose ourselves in a labyrinth of adjectives, and so get away from the main subject altogether. Why is it dishonourable for me to make love to you? For, though you will insist to the contrary, I am absolutely ignorant of any prohibitive reason.”
“That is impossible,” Jill replied, and he flushed at her want of faith in his veracity. “But as you are determined to keep your counsel until you discover how much I know I had better speak out I suppose. You are not free to propose matrimony to me.”
St. John’s eyebrows went up with a jerk.
“Indeed!” he said. “Your statement is news to me, so also is the very low idea you have formed of my character. In what way am I not free? Do you mean that there is someone else?”
Jill nodded; she could find no words.