"Then you mean to stick to that—to go on with your engagement—to marry Lancelot—in spite of what happened to-day?" he asked hastily.
She stood up straight in a long, loose, pale-coloured gown, half lost, half seen in the faint light. The glint of the stars swam in her eyes.
"May I ask what else you expected?"
He was at a loss. Ready enough had he been to console her, to tell her that Fate was too strong for her, to urge her to correct her mistake before it was too late. Her present attitude stunned him, and bereft him of words. The dashing of the high hopes with which he had come bred in him a sudden sense of being wronged.
"Millie," he expostulated, "do you know what you said—up there when the water rushed out upon you? You called out: 'Bert! Bert!'"
There was silence. He saw her start.
"Did I say that?" she said slowly. "Then it is I who have betrayed myself, and you—are not so much to blame as I thought. I can believe that it excited you a little to find that I knew you, and made you think of old times." She hesitated, seeming at a loss what to say or do; her embarrassment was obvious, her distress manifest. Then, with sudden determination, she came near the window again. "If that is true, I suppose I must forgive you," she said stiffly, "and we must both forget a mad moment."
He could hardly believe his ears. "Is that all you have to say?" he demanded harshly.
"The less we either of us say the better, surely, concerning such an affair."
The man drew in his breath sharply. "After all that has come and gone?" he panted.