The thrust, so quietly delivered, went home. Roger bit his under lip and was silent, his eyes glowering.
"So that's what you think of me, is it?" he said at last, sullenly.
The look in Barry's eyes softened the stern sincerity of his reply.
"What else can I think? In your place a man's first thought should surely be to release the woman he loves from the infernal bondage which marriage with him must inevitably mean."
"On the principle that from him who hath not shall be taken away even that which he hath, I suppose?" gibed the bitter voice from the bed.
"No," answered Barry, with simplicity. "But just because if you love a woman you can't possibly want to hurt her."
"And if she loved you, a woman couldn't possibly want to turn you down because you've had the damnedest bad luck any man could have."
"But does she love you?" asked Barry. "I know—and you know—that she does not. She cares for someone else."
Roger made a sudden, violent movement.
"Who is it? She has never told me who it was. I suppose it's that confounded cad who painted her portrait—Maryon Rooke?"