"Foolish fellow! I wish he had not come!"
"I dare say he returns the compliment."
"I wish she would leave him alone!" he says, with an accent of impatience, more to himself than to me.
"That is so likely," say I, quickly, "so much her way, is not it?"
I suppose that something in the exceeding bitterness of my tone strikes him, for his eyes return from Algy to me.
"Nancy," he says, speaking with a sort of hesitating impulse, while a dark flush crosses his face, "it has occurred to me once or twice—if the idea had been less unspeakably absurd, it would have occurred to me many times—that you are—are jealous of Zéphine and me!—You jealous of ME!!"
There is such a depth of emphasis in his last words—such a wealth of reproachful appeal in the eyes that are bent on me—that I can answer nothing. I say neither yea nor nay. He has sat down on the couch beside me.
"Tell me," he says, with low, quick excitement—"and for God's sake do not grow scarlet, and turn your head aside as you mostly have done—did you, or did you not know that—that Musgrave was to be here to-day?"
"I did not—indeed I did not!" I cry, with passionate eagerness; thankful for once to be able to tell the truth; "we none of us did—not even Barbara!"
He repeats my last words with a slightly sarcastic inflection, "not even Barbara!"