“No,” said Jem. But his face was like that of one in a mortal struggle.
For a moment there was a flash of fear in her regard. “Jem! There is not—some one else?”
“How could there be?” he said simply.
“How could there be!” she repeated with a caressing contentment. “I knew there could not be.”
“There never could. How did you know?”
She stepped back from him. “By what I felt, myself.” She laughed a little tremulously. “I should have read it in The Guardian. Between the lines.”
“But—” he began. “There was——Miss Pritchard told me—”
“Yes,” she assented gravely. “There was. It was a formal betrothal. But when I saw him again I knew that I could not. It was no fault of his—nor mine. I remembered,” she said very low, “that night. That last night. On the bridge. Four years ago. My dear! Was it four years ago?”
Her eyes, her voice yearned to him, wooed him. Jem’s knuckles were white with the force of the grip wherewith he held to the table.
“Marcia!” he began.