"No." And again the girl found it almost impossible to go on. But this time she did continue: "Prudence married Mr. Rodney Lawrence, Lord Maxwell. They never came back that night. I wonder you had not heard?"
The young man rose to his feet, but immediately sat down again. His face grew red, and then pale. He opened his lips to speak, and presently said, "Haven't seen a paper; haven't heard any news. By Jove!"
The exclamation came harshly,—so harshly that he immediately begged pardon.
He sat gazing intently into the fire. It was really painful to witness his struggle towards composure. As for Carolyn, she was wondering now at her own calmness. She was thinking, "He loves her, too."
Then she fell to wondering what Prudence would think and feel when she knew that now, by her own act, she had missed a brilliant marriage, for the second time had missed a peerage. But below everything in her mind was the keen, insistent question, "Why do they love her so?"
Lord Maxwell evidently tried to rouse himself. He looked at the girl opposite; something in her face made his eyes grow dim. He wanted to speak; his thoughts groped for words that should express—what? His mind was in a painful confusion; he hated to suffer as he was suffering now. And this girl who was looking at him,—how kind she was!—and, by Jove, she had just been going to marry Lawrence! He had forgotten that at first. What a cursed muddle it all was! Had she cared, too? But women were so strange, and proud, and—All at once Maxwell was pouring out hurried words, having a confidence that this girl would not scorn him, would be kind, and he must speak to some one; a man couldn't hold his peace when such a thing as this had happened. And he had been sure that Prudence would engage herself to him, and they would be married as soon as it was respectable. Hadn't she jilted Lawrence for him? Hadn't she—but what had he done himself? And now he wondered if she had loved Lawrence all the time; but surely she had loved him, Maxwell, when—He wanted to swear again.
"Here I've been thinking of her every minute," he burst out,—"thinking of her when I ought to have remembered my wife. But I didn't care; I didn't care for anything but to get a smile from Prudence. Damn it! Oh, do forgive me, Miss Ffolliott! A man doesn't know what he's saying. And when Lady Maxwell died, I wouldn't write; I was bound I'd wait till I came back here, you know; I resolved on that,—kind of penance, and that sort of thing, and—"
"It was too late, Lord Maxwell," interrupted Carolyn, coldly, "already too late before you had joined your wife."
"Was it?" Maxwell was now walking about the room, his hands in his pockets. "I'll wager ten to one you think I'm a fool to care so, and so I am. But what's a fellow to do? I tell you I'm hard hit,—devilishly hard hit,—beg pardon."
"Men seem to be fools about Prudence Ffolliott," remarked Carolyn; "she seems to be that kind of a woman."