“Very well.” Clarice reached out her hand for her pen and drew the blotting-pad towards her.
“But Betty?” said Bellairs uneasily.
“You have not answered my question. I shall not answer yours.” She dipped her pen in the ink and prepared to go on with her letter. Bellairs grew desperate.
“Look here,” he said; “you must tell me the reason of this change in Betty. Now I know you don't care for me, you don't really love me.”
“No, I don't love you,” she said quickly.
“Well, then, since you say that, I will answer your question. I tried to win your heart because I wanted to win Betty's!”
“What do you mean?”
“That Betty is practically you—or was, your echo, in word, deed, thought. Her mind, her heart, followed yours in everything. I loved her, and I knew that if I made you like me very much she must follow you in that feeling as in others. Since you don't love me, I can dare to tell you this.”
Clarice sat silent.