"She loves you," she said breathlessly.
"She only imagines it. She only plays with that idea."
"No, no! she loves you," she said in a tone of great suffering.
"But, Drina," he said, aghast at her inconsistency, "it was you who came to me—who begged me to marry Doris—how can you forget that?"
She burst into tears.
"What! You are jealous!—jealous of her!" he cried with a great hope in his voice, his hand going out to her.
She stiffened suddenly and drew back, frightened into her corner.
"No, I'm not jealous," she said furiously. "Only hurt—terribly hurt."
This sudden change left him bewildered. He felt it unjustified, inconsistent and a reproach was on his lips.
In the end he quieted himself and said, forcing himself to speak like a stranger: