"I understand many things better than I did," she interrupted. "You were no more mad then than you are now. I think I have always been willing to forgive you for that. I wanted to forgive you because I thought perhaps you didn't know what you were saying. But you make it harder for me now. The boy I knew in the West is dead, Cortland. In his place rides a man I do not know, a man with a shadow in his eyes, a man of the gay world, which moves along the line of least resistance, with little room in his heart for the troubles of the woman he once offered to protect with his life."
"I would still protect you—that is what I am offering."
"How? By making me a woman like Rita Cheyne, who changes her husbands as though they were fashions in parasols. You offer me protection from Jeff. I refuse it." And then she added a little haughtily, "I'm not sure that I need any protection."
He glowered toward her, searching her face sullenly.
"You love him?" he muttered.
She smiled a little proudly. "I can't love you both. Jeff is my husband."
"You love him?" he repeated. "Answer me!"
"Not when you take that tone. I'll answer you nothing. Come, we had better ride forward." And, before he could restrain her, she had urged her horse into a canter.
"Camilla!" he called.
But before he could reach her she had joined the others, outside the gates of Braebank.