She sat up at that, and looked at him.
"Why, how could I?" she demanded. "I was quite certain that you loved Isabella Fanshawe. I felt I had to go away, and I could not do it alone—so—so—so, of course I had to elope. And I told Harold last night that I would go with him—and I'm afraid he didn't quite want me when he heard that I loved you. Oh, Dicky darling, you'll tell him that I won't go with him, won't you?"
He could not help laughing.
"Ay, I'll tell him. 'Pon rep., sweetheart, I can find it in me to be sorry for him!"
"Oh, he will not mind for long," she said philosophically. "He loves so easily, you see! But you, Dick—why did you go so often—so very often to see Mrs. Fanshawe?"
His face grew solemn.
"She knew—Jack—in Vienna—I—I wanted to hear all she could tell me of him—I could think of nothing else."
"Oh, Dicky! How—how wickedly foolish I have been! And 'twas that that made you so cold—and I thought—oh, dear!"
He drew her head down on to his shoulder again.
"My poor love! Why, 'tis the kindest lady imaginable, but as to loving her—!" He kissed her hand lingeringly. "I love—and have always loved—a far different being: a naughty, wilful, captivating little person, who—"