"Well; but I know; I have guessed."
Bertie was startled. What was she thinking; what had she got into her head?
"Yes, I have guessed it," she repeated. "Frank does not love me; he loves—he loves that woman—that creature of the Lyceum. He has always loved her; is it so?"
Bertie said nothing, but stared before him; that was the easiest and best reply.
"Bertie, tell me, is it so?"
"No, it is not so," he answered, dully. "What a foolish notion to have got into your head. What made you think, of such a thing?" But there was no ring of conviction in his voice; he spoke mechanically, as though in absence of mind, as if he were thinking of something else.
"Does he ever see her now?" she went on, feeling as if she were defiling herself with her own words; as if her lips were dropping slime.
"Why, of course not. What are you thinking of?"
She leaned back with a sigh, and tears glistened in her large eyes. He was silent for a minute, studying her out of the corner of his eye. Then, as if to mitigate his too feeble repudiation of the suspicion, he went on reproachfully:
"Really, Eva, you must not think such things of Frank. It is not nice; you must have some confidence in the man you are to marry."