“Let them!”
She stared at him in silence. She felt exactly as though she had been beating against a closed door. With a gesture of hopelessness she turned away, recognizing the futility of pleading with him further.
“One moment”—he stepped in front of her, barring her path. “I want an answer to a question before you go.”
There was something of his old arrogance in the demand—the familiar, dominating quality which had always swayed her. Despite herself, she yielded to it now.
“Well?” she said unwillingly. “What is it you wish to know?”
“I want to know if you are engaged to Tim Durward.”
For an instant the colour rushed into Sara's white face; then it ebbed away, leaving it paler than before.
“No,” she said quietly. “I am not.” She lifted her eyes, accusing, passionately reproachful, to his. “How could you—even ask me that? Did you ever believe I loved you?” she went on fiercely. “And if I did—could I care for any one else?”
A look of triumph leapt into his eyes.
“You care still, then?” he asked, and in his voice was blent all the exultation, and the wonder, and the piercing torment of love itself.