She kissed him obediently. But there was no warmth in her kiss, no answering thrill, and the man knew it. He held her away from him, his sudden passion chilled.
"Is that the best you can do?" he demanded, looking down at her with something grimly ironic in his eyes. She steadied herself to meet his glance.
"It is—really, Roger," she replied earnestly. "Oh!"—flushing swiftly—"you must know it!"
"Yes"—with a shrug. "I suppose I ought to have known it. I'm only a second string, after all."
There was so much bitterness in his voice that Nan's heart was touched to a compassionate understanding.
"Ah! Don't speak like that!" she cried tremulously. "You know I'm giving you all I can, Roger. I've been quite fair with you—quite honest. I told you I had no love to give you, that I could never care for anyone again,—like that. And you said you would be content," she added with reproach.
"I know I did," he answered sullenly. "But I'm not. No man who loved you would be content! . . . And I'm never sure of you. . . . You hate it here—"
"But it will be different when we are married," she said gently. Surely it would be different when they were alone together in their own home without the perpetual irritation of Isobel's malicious little thrusts and Lady Gertrude's implacability?
"My God, yes! It'll he different then. I shall have you to myself!"
"Your mother?" she questioned, a thought timidly.