“But what?”
Gerard looked up, half shyly.
“I don’t think it would become me to say any more,” he said frankly, “considering, as I’ve told you, that I’m jealous.”
Again a faint smile flickered over Rachel’s face, then, in a sweet, low voice, she said—
“I like you to be jealous, Mr. Buckland.”
But he burst out passionately—
“Don’t. You have no right to use me like this, no right to send for me to talk about your intended marriage with another man, and then—and then—to try—to try—”
“To try to make you see that I’m grateful for the interest you’ve taken in me, that I appreciate your generosity, that I take pleasure in your society? Is that what I have no right to do, Mr. Buckland?”
But Gerard would not be brow-beaten. He stuck to his guns.
“Yes,” he said stoutly, “that’s what I contend. If you, knowing as you do that I’m madly in love with you, that I’ve loved you through everything, in the face of mysteries and secrets which were enough to make me decide never to speak to you again, in the face of—other things of which I scarcely dare speak—if you, knowing all this, as I say, have sent for me only to tell me you’re grateful for my interest and all the rest of it, you’re treating me badly. You have no right to try to make me think of you more than I do, no right even to be kind, unless—unless—”