"What can you mean, Eugene?" turning her eyes upon him, with doubting surprise; "I love any one, you cannot be in earnest—as to any one loving me."
"Well, do you think that so very much out of the question—Mr. Temple for instance?"
These last words were spoken in a faltering, agitated voice, the speaker's countenance undergoing a strange, a most unpleasing change, whilst an ashy paleness spread over it, his eyes, in which glared a sinister expression, fixed upon the clear open countenance of Mary, who that moment was pensively looking down, or indeed she might well have been startled at the new light which shone from her lover's face.
"Mr. Temple!" she repeated slowly, and sadly "ah, yes!" with a thoughtful sigh, "but surely, Eugene, I satisfied you fully on that point, when I told you I refused him."
"Yes, I know," but in a quick suspicious tone, "why did you sigh when you repeated that man's name?"
"Did I sigh?"
"To be sure, you did; Mary, pray do not let me imagine that you repent—that for a moment you have ever regretted you refused that—man, the idea would distract me."
"Eugene, Eugene! you are very strange to-day," replied the astonished girl, "how is it possible that I could have regretted it, when so soon after I met you—and now—"
Her soft glance finished the sentence, and seemed to express that now such an idea would indeed be madness. Eugene pressed her arm grateful for this soothing assurance, but still seemed not perfectly satisfied.
"And supposing even that you had not met with me so soon after," he persisted, "you never would have regretted this act of yours? Mary, you do not answer. Is it possible," turning almost fiercely towards her, "that on second thoughts, on mature consideration, you ever could have consented to marry that man?"