“Yes,” he said, “absurd as it is, Frank, from a few words he let drop when he was in one of his passions the other day, I supposed it was that. He said something about all his plans thwarted—infamous scoundrel—break Alice's heart—have nothing to do with him.”
“Yes,” Frank said, “I can quite fancy him. But he must be mad, Fred. It was all his own hatching up. Alice and I never cared a scrap for each other. Sisterly, and so on, but nothing else.”
Fred Bingham was silent.
“Don't you believe me, Fred?” Frank asked, warmly.
“Well, Frank, I don't question what you say about your own feelings, and I am sure that you are the last fellow to intend to trifle with any girl's affections; but, if you frankly wish my opinion, I tell you honestly I have no question that Alice Heathcote did love you.”
“Nonsense, man!” Frank said, very angrily, “Alice never cared a scrap for me; she told me so herself.”
“Did you ask her then, Frank?” Fred said, pointedly.
“No, I did not,” Frank said, still more indignant; “have I not told you I never thought of such a thing. Uncle and I were having a row. He was insisting on my marrying her, I was saying I would not, because I did not love her—well, she was in the next room and heard it all, and came in and told her uncle that it was out of the question, for that I did not love her and she did not love me.”
Fred looked up almost contemptuously. How stupid this big strong man was to be sure.