She stood silent, the colour racing through her cheeks. She could not, in the same breath, ask Hallam to release her. It was impossible. Nothing on earth could prevent his believing that it was because she wished to marry Berkley. And she was never to marry Berkley. She knew it, now.
"Who is this Private Ormond, anyway?" asked Hallam, handsome eyes bent curiously on her.
And she said, calmly: "I think you did not mean to ask me that,
Captain Hallam."
"Why not?"
"Because the man in question would have told you had he not desired the privilege of privacy—to which we all are entitled, I think."
"It seems to me," said Hallam, reddening, "that, under the circumstances, I myself have been invested by you with some privileges."
"Not yet," she returned quietly. And again her reply implied deceit; and she saw, too late, whither that reply led—where she was drifting, helpless to save herself, or Berkley, or this man to whom she had been betrothed.
"I've got to speak now," she began desperately calm. "I must tell you that I cannot marry you. I do not love you enough. I am forced to say it. I was a selfish, weak, unhappy fool when I thought I could care enough for you to marry you. All the fault is mine; all the blame is on me. I am a despicable woman."
"Are you crazy, Ailsa!"
"Half crazed, I think. If you can, some day, try to forgive me—I should be very grateful."