Still Trevanion could not speak freely; even yet he wondered if there were not some way whereby doubt could be kept in the girl's mind.
"You see," he said presently, "Nancarrow was in the O.T.C. at Clifton, and, I suppose, did very well there. Captain Pringle spoke to me more than once about him, and—and I heard after he left Cornwall that he joined a London regiment; of course, it was only hearsay, and I paid but very little attention to it—in fact, I didn't believe it! Still, it might be he."
The girl's lips became tremulous: "Do you mean that, after all, Bob joined?"
"He might have," admitted Trevanion, and his voice was almost husky as he spoke, and his eyes became hard.
"No, no," she cried, "It couldn't have been he. If he had, he would have told me—I am sure he would."
"Would he?" asked Trevanion.
She stood silent for a few seconds without speaking. She remembered the circumstances under which she had parted from Bob; she called to mind the time when she had given him a white feather in the Public Hall at St. Ia, and her face crimsoned with shame at the thought of it. No one could offer a more deadly insult than she had offered Bob. She had branded him as a coward, regardless of who might be looking on. No, no, even if he had joined, he would not have told her; his heart would be too bitter against her. Why—why, he must hate her now!
"I say, Nancy," and Trevanion's voice was hoarse with pain, "you don't mean to tell me that you care anything about him still? You know what you said; you told me you despised him, and—and, why, you almost told me to hope! Don't you remember?"
The girl's face was set and stern; she did not hear Trevanion's last words; she was wondering with a great wonder.
"Do you know anything besides what you have told me?" she asked.