"Yes. . . . She was in love with you."
"With—with me?" he repeated, bewildered.
"Yes. As a young, romantic girl she fell in love with you. She was a curious child—like all the Guernseys, a strange mixture of impulse and constancy, of romance and determination. If she had fallen in love with Satan she would have remained constant. But she only fell in love with young Marque. . . . And she loves him to this day."
"That—that's utterly impossible!" he stammered. "Didn't she become a suffragette and carry a banner and chase me and vow to make me eat my own words frosted on a terrible plum cake?"
"Yes. And all the while she went on loving you."
"How do you know?" he demanded, incredulously.
"She confided in me."
"In you!"
"I knew her well, Lord Marque. . . . Not as well as I thought I did, perhaps; yet, perhaps better than—many—perhaps better than anybody. . . . We were brought up together."
"You were her governess?"