“I keep no one to their word who means to break it,” said Falloden coldly.
Constance grew suddenly white.
“That”—she said quietly—“was unpardonable!”
“It was. I retract it.”
“No. You have said it—which means that you could think it. That decides it.”
They rode on in silence. As they neared the gate, Constance, whose face showed agitation and distress, said abruptly—
“Of course I know I must seem very ungrateful—”
A sound, half bitter, half scornful from Falloden stopped her. She threw her head back defiantly.
“All the same I could be grateful enough, in my own way, if you would let me. But what you don’t understand is that men can’t lord it over women now as they used to do. You say—you”—she stammered a little—“you love me. I don’t know yet—what I feel. I feel many different things. But I know this: A man who forbids me to do this and that—to talk to this person—or dance with some one else—a man who does not trust and believe in me—if I were ever so much in love with him, I would not marry him! I should feel myself a coward and a slave!”
“One is always told”—said Falloden hoarsely—“that love makes it easy to grant even the most difficult things. And I have begged the merest trifle.”