“Will you answer my question?” paying no attention to her gibe.
“What if I say yes?” Marjorie had seldom looked so beautiful; cheeks pink and eyes bright with feverish excitement. Tall and slim and graceful, she faced the jealous man with undaunted spirit.
“If I thought you meant it——?” Barnard’s husky whisper barely reached her ears, but his look of agony smote her, angry as she was.
“Are you the only one who can—flirt?” she asked, half drawn by his personal magnetism, and half repelled by his manner.
“Is that all?” eagerly. “Are you merely trying to tease me? Oh, it must be that”—answering his own impetuous question in his anxiety to trample down his doubts. “A girl must love a man when she steals for him.”
Marjorie stood frozen; every vestige of color stricken from her face. “Explain your meaning.” The words were little more than a whisper.
“You destroyed the signed codicil in which Aunt Margaret Lawrence revoked her bequest to me....”
“Chichester!” Her voice was poignant with outraged feeling. “You dare to think me a thief!”
“No, no, my darling, only a loyal woman—a woman who has the courage of her affections—how I love you, Marjorie!” His voice lingered on her name.
“How you insult me, you mean!” With a violent wrench Marjorie tore herself free from his grasp, and turning, gathered up her belongings. “Let me pass,” as he planted himself in front of her.