The mention of Carfax’s name was as salt to a fresh wound.
“You’ve changed your mind about Poictiers, haven’t you?” he said, and he tried to make the saying of it entirely judicial. “You made fun of him at first, you know.”
“Not of him, but of some of the things that he said and did,” she corrected quickly. “And that was only because I didn’t know him; because I was so stupid as not to recognize the real man under the transparent little mask of affectation that he delights in holding up between himself and all the rest of the world.”
Tregarvon made a loud call upon his magnanimity, and concurred heartily.
“He is the finest there is, Richardia. I—I hope he will be able to make you as happy as you deserve to be.”
For the moment he was puzzled. Sheer maiden modesty might have accounted for the blush, but why should the slate-blue eyes grow suspiciously bright, as with tears?
“Then he has told you?” She had turned away from him and there was a little catch in her voice.
“Yes. It broke my heart, Richardia—which shows you how far I had gone on the road to depravity. Poictiers said to me once that I was playing the dog in the manger, and so I was. There was no excuse, of course; there never is an excuse for dishonor. But you were heart and soul and conscience to me, and I seemed to need you so much more than anybody else ever could. I can say all this without blame now, can’t I? You are going to marry Poictiers, and I am going to marry Elizabeth.”
She had turned farther away, as if to conceal emotions too profound to be shared. At first he thought she was crying, and wondered why. Then it was borne in upon him that she was laughing, and he became instantly and hotly resentful.
“If you are laughing at me and my little lunacy, it is all right,” he exploded. “But if it’s at Poictiers——”