“No, no!” she cried, quivering all over. “I’m not mad. I know what I’m saying—God knows, I wish I didn’t.”
Her voice sank to a whisper, and her head fell against her hands. Crowdie laid one of his upon her arm, and she quivered again, like a nervous thoroughbred. Crowdie’s own voice was full of soft pleading as he spoke to her.
“My sweet—my precious! Listen to me, love; don’t think I don’t love you, not even for one instant, nor that I ever loved you even a little less. Hester, look at me, darling—don’t turn your face away as though you were always going to be angry—it’s all a wretched mistake, dear! Won’t you try and believe me?”
But Hester would not turn to him.
“What has she got that I haven’t?” she asked, in a low monotonous tone, as though speaking to herself.
“Nothing, beloved—not half of all you have, not a quarter nor a hundredth part—”
“Yes—she’s more beautiful, I suppose,” continued Hester, speaking into the chair as she buried her face. “But surely that’s all—oh, what is it? What else is it that she has, and that I haven’t, and that you love in her?”
“But I don’t love her—I don’t care for her—I don’t even like her—I hate her since she’s come between you and me, dear.”
“No—you love her. I’ve seen it in your eyes—you can’t hide it in your eyes. You do! You love her!” she cried, suddenly raising her face and turning upon him for a moment, then looking away again almost instantly. “Oh, what has she got that I haven’t? What’s her secret—oh, what is it?”
Crowdie bent over her shoulder and kissed the stuff of her frock softly.