“Nothing?” asked the girl drearily, and she closed her eyes to keep back the blinding tears. “Worship is not all a woman requires; there is honor and faith....”
“You doubt my sincerity?” he demanded hotly.
“Can you blame me?” She shrugged her shoulders disdainfully. “Have I not daily evidence of your attentions to Janet Fordyce?”
Barnard threw back his head and laughed long and heartily. “Madge, are you quite blind?” he asked. “I am attentive to Janet, yes, because then I can be near you. Do you really suppose I care for that bread-and-butter miss?”
“Bread and butter’s very good for a steady diet,” Marjorie passed a nervous hand over her forehead. “Particularly when it’s spread with gold dust.”
“Steady, Madge, steady; there are some insults a man can’t take from even a woman.” Barnard’s eyes were flashing ominously, and every bit of color had deserted his face. “Have you no spark of feeling about you? Are you all adamantine? Have you no recollection of the night we plighted our troth?” his voice quivered with pent-up passion, and she moved uneasily.
“I am not the one who forgot, Chichester,” she said, refusing to meet his eyes. “When I found—changed conditions, I gave you back your freedom.”
“Because I had not been to see you for a couple of days. What a reason!” he laughed mirthlessly. “You accuse me of lack of faith; come, where was your faith?”
“It’s the pot calling the kettle black;” Marjorie, intent on controlling her impulse to cry, failed to observe Barnard’s altered demeanor. He had been intently studying the varying emotions which flitted across her face, and, keen student of human nature that he was, instantly put his knowledge of her character to the test.
“Come,” he sprang to his feet. “We will go to Madame Yvonett....”