The name tore savagely at his heart, wounding him into jealousy and distrust. He was all blind passion now. Wenderby sprang to his eye, as he had stood darkly beside Lady Mary at the theatre. He saw, redly, in his galloping mind, his shining angel—now a beautiful woman he had exquisitely touched—possessed by another.
"Turn to me, Lady Mary."
It was a command, and she obeyed. She bravely met his burning look, but she did not know how unendurable it had become. It searched and denounced her. Her eyes failed.
"You do not love Lord Wenderby."
Now he accused her. She collected her mind for a defence.
"It is not so simple as that," she pleaded.
"You do not love him," he repeated.
She drew herself erect and faced him.
"You must not speak like that," she said. "You are talking wildly. I tell you again this is not a simple thing."
"Love is a simple thing," he rudely countered.