“As God wills,” Bellairs said passionately; “why do you say that, when you know it is not true?”
“Not true—Mr Bellairs!”
“Yes. If you echoed the will of God how could I blame you? We must all do that—at least, when we are good. And those of us who are wicked I suppose echo the Devil. But you—what do you echo?”
“I—I echo no one. I don't understand you.”
“But you shall, before it is too late. Betty, be yourself. Emancipate your soul. You are the echo of that woman, of Clarice. Don't you see it? Don't you know it? You are her echo—and she hates me!”
Betty drew back from him—she was evidently alarmed.
“Are you mad?” she said. “Why do you say such things to me? Clarice and I love each other, it is true, but our real natures are totally different. She does not hate you, nor do I. She has never said one word against you to me. She has always told me how much she liked you. What are you saying?”
“The truth!”
“I—her echo! Why, then—then if that were the case she must have loved you, or thought she loved you. Do you dare to tell me that?”
“I do not say that,” Bellairs answered hopelessly.