“And what do you suppose she could have said, Frank? She had just heard you say you did not love her, and would not marry her; and do you think that a girl like Alice Heathcote could have done anything else under the circumstances? Do you think she could have burst out crying and told you she loved you and prayed you to marry her?”
Frank sat down in his chair in sheer dismay.
“How long was this ago, Frank? Six months?”
Frank nodded.
“Just as I thought—just the time Alice got ill and low-spirited. I saw it all along. I was certain that she loved you, and I thought you loved her. I always looked upon it as a settled thing; and, indeed, it is hardly likely your uncle would have gone so far as he did, if he had not been sure Alice's happiness was concerned.”
Frank sat petrified; at last he said,—
“And upon your soul and honour, Fred, do you believe she loved me?”
“Upon my soul and honour I do, Frank.”
And for once Fred Bingham spoke the truth.