"Then you were in earnest—worse still!" he said, in that light, mocking tone, with his piercing eyes on her burning face. "Beatrix—pardon, Miss Gordon—what would Cyril Wentworth say to that?"
"Nothing! It is no more concern of his," she flashed out, passionately unconscious of the sudden joy that flashed into his eyes.
"Do you mean that you have broken with Wentworth?" he exclaimed.
"Yes," she answered, coldly.
He regarded her suspiciously.
"Do you know that he is gone away?" he asked, doubtfully.
"To Europe—yes, but I do not care!" she answered, out of the recklessness of her despair.
"Do you mean that you love him no longer—that it was a mere child-fancy that absence has cured?" St. Leon asked her, anxiously. She gave him a swift, half-angry glance from her dark eyes.
"I do not know why you should presume to question me so," she said, with a little flash of pride. "But I will answer you, Mr. Le Roy. Yes, it was a mere childish fancy, and I am effectually cured of it. I know now that I never loved Cyril Wentworth in my life."
He bowed his handsome head in graceful acknowledgment.