"That's a question, surely, that you must ask her to answer," he said, in a colourless voice.
Lance uttered an exclamation of rage.
"You ought to know without asking," went on Hubert presently. "Does she love you? Surely you must know that, If she does ... I'm out of it, you see."
Lancelot paused in his pacing. He leaned against the window-frame staring out Hubert had touched the weak spot. He knew that he had persuaded Millie into the engagement, had ever since continued to assure her that she was happy, or that, if not, she certainly would be. He knew that, were he sure of her love, distrust would be impossible to him. He was not sure. He did distrust her. He was madly, wildly jealous of Hubert. Crossing to where he sat, he seized his shoulder, shaking him violently.
"When she promised to marry me, did she know who you are?"
"Yes."
"Then it's all right! It must be! She said she liked me better than anybody else."
"If she said so, it was true."
"She's—she's not like most girls, you see. She's a cold nature—"
"Is she?"