“Then you haven’t ever—forgiven me?” she said at last, haltingly.
He stared at her.
“Isn’t that rather a curious question to ask? You killed everything in life that mattered—damned my chances of happiness once and for always.... No, I don’t think I’ve forgiven you. I’ve endeavoured to forget you.” He paused, then added with a brief, ironic laugh: “It was a queer joke for fate to play—bringing us both to the same neighbourhood.”
“I didn’t know,” said Cara hastily. “You know that, don’t you? I had no idea you lived here when I bought the Priory. Even when I heard—afterwards—that a Mr. Coventry owned Heronsmere, I never dreamed it could be you. You see, I was told he was very wealthy—”
“And the Coventry you knew was—poor!”
It was like the thrust of a rapier, and Cara winced under the concentrated scorn of the bitter speech.
“You are very merciless,” she said, her voice shaken and uneven.
“Then leave it at that,” he rejoined indifferently. “I’ve no particular grounds for being anything else. The past is dead—and it won’t stand resurrection.”
“Does the past ever die?” she demanded, a note of despair in her voice. “I think not.”
He looked at her curiously—at the beautiful face, a trifle worn and shadowed, with its sad eyes and that strangely patient curve of mouth.