“No!” he exclaimed loudly. “It is not true.”
“I wonder what could have happened to make you so bitter toward her,” she went on, still watching him through half-closed eyes. “Was she unfaithful to you? Was——”
“Good God, Yvonne!” he cried, an angry light jumping into his eyes—the eyes that so recently had been ablaze with love.
“Don't be angry, dearest,” she cried plaintively. “We Europeans speak of such things as if they were mere incidents. I forget that you Americans take them seriously, as tragedies.”
He controlled himself with an effort. The pallor in his face would have alarmed anyone but her.
“We must never speak of—of that again, Yvonne,” he said, a queer note of hoarseness in his voice. “Never, do you understand?” He was very much shaken.
“Forgive me,” she pleaded, stretching out her hand to him. “I am foolish, but I did not dream that I was being cruel or unkind. Perhaps, dear, it is because I am—jealous.”
“There is no one—nothing to be jealous of,” he said, passing a hand over his moist brow. Then he drew nearer and took her hand in his. It was as cold as ice.
“Your hand is cold, darling,” he cried.
“And yours, too,” she said, looking down at their clasped hands, a faint smile on her lips. Suddenly she withdrew her fingers from his strong grip. A slight shiver ran over her frame. “Ugh! I don't like cold hands!”