“Ask your own heart, Marian! or do you wish me to name him?”
“Name him!”
“Frank Wingrove.”
She did not start. She must have expected that name: since there was no other to be mentioned. She did not start, though a sensible change was observable in the expression of her countenance. A slight darkling upon her brow, accompanied by a pallor and compression of the lips, indicated pain.
“Frank Wingrove,” I repeated, seeing that she remained silent. “I know not why I should have challenged you to name him,” said she, still preserving the austere look. “Now that you have done so, I regret it. I had hoped never to hear his name again. In truth, I had well-nigh forgotten it.”
I did not believe in the sincerity of the assertion. There was a slight tincture of pretence in the tone that belied the words. It was the lips alone that were speaking, and not the heart. It was fortunate that Wingrove was not within earshot. The speech would have slain him.
“Ah, Marian!” I said, appealingly, “he has not forgotten yours.”
“No—I suppose he mentions it—with boasting!”
“Say rather with bewailing.”
“Bewailing? Indeed! And why? That he did not succeed in betraying me?”