“Can’t you? It’s pretty plain.”
“No,” said Joyce. “We have always been the best of friends.”
“Friends? You don’t mean to say you did n’t know she was gone on you—clean gone, all off her chump? No one liked to chaff you about it, because you have an infernal sarcastic way of scoring off fellows. But, Gawd! The way she used to look at you was enough to make a man sick!”
“Do you mean she was in love with me?” asked Joyce, falteringly, as the whole situation of affairs, past and present, began to dawn upon him.
“Well, rather,” said McKay, with a chuckle. “What do you think?”
Several of the company were still around the pile of luggage by the van, claiming their things and waiting for porters. Standing on one side was Annie Stevens, and, as it happened, Joyce recognised his Gladstone bag lying at her feet He went and picked it up, and was going off silently with it, when he felt her touch on his arm. Dim as the light was, he could see that her face was haggard and drawn. She met his stern gaze beseechingly.
“For God’s sake, forgive me,” she whispered.
“You have played too much havoc with my life,” replied Joyce coldly.
“I shall kill myself,” said the girl.
“Some people are better dead,” said Joyce, turning away, bag in hand.