“You kept mentioning three other men who could have me for all you cared.”
Pats felt himself blushing. He frowned, grew hot, and bit his lip. Mingled with his mortification came an impotent rage. He felt that behind her contempt she was laughing at him. As there was a pause, he muttered bitterly:
“Go on.”
But she continued silently with her ironing.
“Please go on. Tell me more; the worst. I should like to know it.”
Raising one of the handkerchiefs higher for a closer examination, she added: “You sang comic songs, inserting my name, and with language I supposed no gentlemen could use.”
Pats gasped. His cheeks tingled. In shame he closed his eyes. The ticking of the old 132clock behind the door seemed to hammer his degradation still deeper into his aching soul. As his wandering, miserable gaze encountered the marble face of the Marshal of France he thought the old soldier was watching him in contemptuous enjoyment.
But Elinor went on quietly with her ironing.
Suddenly into his feverish brain there came a thought, heaven-born, inspiring. It lifted him to his feet. With a firm stride he approached the table. No legs could have done it better. He stood beside her, but she turned her back as she went on with the ironing. His expression was of a man exalted, yet anxious; and he spoke in a low but unruly voice.
“You say you have known I was in love with you ever since the fever?”