“Have you seen Mr Langdale lately?”
“Yes. I often see him. He lives quite near us,” she answered frankly.
“You told me this afternoon, Eva, that you were not engaged. Are you confident there is not likely to be a match between you?”
“A match between us!” she exclaimed with an expression of surprise. “What, are you joking, or do you actually suspect that I love him?”
“I have thought so.”
“Never!” she answered decisively. “I may be friendly, but to love a man of that stamp—a man who thinks more of his dress than a woman—never!”
I smiled at this denunciation of his foppishness. He was certainly a howling cad, for ever dusting his patent leather boots with his handkerchief, shooting forth his cuffs, and settling his tie. He parted his hair in the middle, and patronised women because he believed himself to be a lady-killer. Truly he was a typical specimen of the City “bounder,” who might some day develop into a bucket-shop keeper, a company promoter, or perhaps a money-lender.
At the moment when we were speaking the train entered the station of Hampton, and she rose.
“Tell me, Eva,” I said with deep earnestness as I took her hand to say farewell, “is what you told me this afternoon the absolute truth? Can you never—never reciprocate my love?”
Her lips quivered for an instant as her great blue eyes met mine. Even though she wore a veil, I saw that there were tears in them.