"It was all over with me. I broke faith with you—as I should have done with any man; as I should have done if the lives of a hundred people had depended on my coming. I didn't write, because I preferred not to write lies, and if I had told the truth, I knew you would come at once. To be sure, silence might have had the same result, but I had to risk something, and I risked that."
"I marvel at your disinclination to lie."
"What do you mean by saying that?" broke out Elgar, with natural warmth.
"I mean simply what I say. Go on."
"After all, Mallard, I don't quite know why you should take this tone with me. If a man falls in love, he thinks of nothing but how to gain his end; I should think even you can take that for granted. My broken promise is a trifle in view of what caused it."
"Again, in your view. In mine it is by no means a trifle. It distinguishes you from honourable men, that's all; a point of some moment, I should think, when your character is expressly under discussion."
"You mean, of course, that I am not worthy of Cecily. I can't grant any such conclusion."
"Let us leave that aside for the present," said Mallard. "Will you tell me how it came to pass that you met Miss Doran and her companions at Pompeii?"
Elgar hesitated; whereupon the other added quickly:
"If it was with Miss Doran's anticipation, I want no details."