"You love him still," was the reply; and he screwed and unscrewed the field-glass in his hand, looking bluntly at her the while. She nodded, returning his gaze most earnestly and choking back a sob.
"Well, it's a pity, it's a pity," he replied. "We oughtn't to live together as it is. It's all wrong; it's wicked—I can see that now."
"You are not angry with me?" she answered in surprise.
"You can't help it, I suppose," he answered drearily.
"Do you really mean," she breathlessly said, "that we might as well die together, since we can't live together and be happy?"
"There's nothing in life that gives me a pleasant taste in the mouth, so what's the good? Mind you, my girl, I think it a terrible pity that you should have the thought to die; and if you could be happy living, I'd die myself to save you. But can you? That's the question—can you be happy, even if I went and you stayed?"
"I don't think so," she said thoughtfully, and without excitement.
"No, I don't think so."
"The man's name was Cayley—Cayley," he said to her bluntly.
"How did you know?" she asked, astonished. "You never saw him."