But Bella made no answer; she was retreating warily towards the open window; Oliver, poor angry Oliver, could not say much, he could not do anything, out on the balcony.
But he grasped her arm. "Come back," he said, "right into the room," and forced her, trembling, down into a low chair. "Now tell me," he repeated. "Don't keep me waiting—I can't stand it. I won't hurt you." He leant over her, grasping her soft arm.
But still Bella said nothing. Her free hand was toying with the fringe of her blue sash. She had become very pale, a sickly yellow colour which made her violet eyes seem blue,—for one terrible moment Oliver thought she was going to faint.
"Why should I tell you?" she muttered at last, "you can't force me to tell you. It's a matter personal to myself. It's no business of yours. I've never spent any of the money on you,"—she unfortunately added, "at least hardly any."
Germaine took his hand from her arm. "My God!" he said, "my God!"
Did a dim gleam of what he was feeling penetrate Bella's brain?
"I don't know why you should trouble to ask me," she said defiantly. "Surely you must know well enough."
"I daresay I'm stupid, but I find it very difficult to guess which of the two, Joliffe or—or Uvedale, is your lover."
"My lover? Joliffe—Uvedale?" Bella started to her feet, the colour rushed back into her face. She was shaking with anger and indignation.
"How dare you insult me so?" she gasped. "You wouldn't have dared to say such a thing if my father had been alive! How dare you say, how dare you think, I have a lover?" and then with quivering pain she gave a little cry, "Oh, Oliver!"