He had walked away from her, but at his renewed question he turned back quickly, his hands in his pockets. Something in the look of him gave her a moment of pleasure, a throb of possession. But she showed nothing of it.
"No, it's not all"—her pale blue eyes pierced him. "Why did you go and see her that morning, and why have you never told me since?"
He started, and shrugged his shoulders.
"If you have been seeing much of her," he replied, after a pause, "you probably know as much as I could tell you."
"No," she said steadily; "she has told me much about everything—but that."
He walked restlessly about for a few seconds, then returned, holding out his hands.
"Well, my dear, I said some mad and miserable things. They are as dead now as if they had never been spoken. And they were not love-making—they were crying for the moon. Take me, and forget them. I am an unsatisfactory sort of fellow, but I will do the best I can."
"Wait a bit," she said, retreating, and speaking with a hard incisiveness. "There are plenty of things you don't know. Perhaps you don't know, for instance, that I wrote to Lord Maxwell? I sat up writing it that night—he got it the same morning you saw her."
"You wrote to Maxwell!" he said in amazement—then, under his breath—"to complain of her. My God!"
He walked away again, trying to control himself.