"Is it necessary to ask me? You know that I loved you—and I love you now. If you had been happy I might have hid my feelings—at least, I would have tried—but when I find you with a ploughman husband who could never understand or appreciate you, silence becomes impossible. He cares nothing for you, and neglects you openly."
The girl glanced down at the ring on her finger. "Still," she said, with portentous calm, "that implies a good deal."
Urmston grew impatient. "Pshaw!" he said hoarsely, "one goes past conventions. You never loved him in the least. How could you? It would have been preposterous."
"And I once loved you? Well, perhaps I did. But let us be rational. What is all this leading to?"
Her dispassionate quietness should have warned him, but it merely jarred on his fastidiousness. He was not then in a mood for accurate observation.
"Only that I cannot go away," he said. "This summer was meant for us. Leland thinks of nothing, cares for nothing but his farm. He has not even feeling enough to be jealous of you."
"Ah," said Carrie, while the red spot grew plainer in her cheek, "and then? A summer, after all, does not last very long."
The man appeared embarrassed and confused at the girl's hard, insistent tones.
"Go on," she said sharply. "What is to happen when the summer is gone?"
Again Urmston was silent, with the blood in his face. Carrie Leland slowly rose. For a moment she said nothing, but he winced beneath her gaze.