“Why do you pretend not to understand me?” he said coldly. “I have told you I do not object to your friendship. Why do you pretend that you do not know Colin is in love with you? I suppose he came to Le Touquet partly to be with you. Wasn’t it he who suggested you should come?”
“No, it was Mr. Littleton.... You are absurdly mistaken. Why is it men will never believe in a man-and-woman friendship? Colin is in love with my sister.”
She expected to see him start, but he did not. He did, however, look at her, with a curious, critical, upward gaze.
“Did he tell you so?”
“No, but—I know.”
“Really!” But the tone lacked conviction. He commenced to turn over the pages of the book.
It was only a sick man’s fancy; it must be. And yet Gilbert had had no other kind of irrational fancies. He had remained his old egotistical self, multiplied by about four. Her voice was a little agitated as she put her next question.
“Gilbert, I wish to know something. It is only fair you should answer it, as you made—a statement. What gave you the idea that—that Colin cared more for me than as a—friend?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I have been trained to observe men and women, and my observations of Colin lately—I had nothing to do at Le Touquet except watch such things, which, as a rule, do not interest me—coupled with one or two facts, such as his going away as soon as our engagement was announced, and that he has not married, have led me to think that, as you put it, he cares more for you than as a friend.”