“It’s a lie!” he gave back savagely. “Unless”—he came closer to her—“unless—is it that man, that damned foreigner, who was here to-day?”
“Antoine? No. Oh, Dan”—she forced an uncertain little laugh to her lips—“if you knew me better you’d know that I never do—‘mean anything’!”
The bitter intonation in her voice—the gibe at her own poor ruins of love fallen about her—was lost on him. He was in total ignorance of her friendship with Quarrington. But the plain significance of her words came home to him clearly enough. He did not speak for a minute or two. Then: “You’ve been playing with me, then—fooling me?” he said heavily.
Magda remained silent. The heavy, laboured speech seemed to hold something minatory in it—the sullen lowering which precedes a tempest.
“Answer me!” he persisted. “Was that it?”
“I—I suppose it was,” she faltered.
He drew still closer and instinctively she shrank away. A consciousness of repressed violence communicated itself to her. She half expected him to strike her.
“And you don’t love me? You’re quite sure?”
There was an ominous kind of patience in the persistent questioning. It was as though he were deliberately giving her every possible chance to clear herself. Her nerves frayed a little.
“Of course I’m sure—perfectly sure,” she said with nervous asperity. “I wish you’d believe me, Dan!”