At my demand she answered, with a firmness that surprised me, “I will never marry a man I don’t love—never.”
“Then it was at your father’s suggestion—that proposed marriage of yours?”
“Of course, I hated him.”
“Surely it was unwise to allow the announcement to get into the papers, wasn’t it?”
“It was my father’s doing, not mine,” she responded. “When it was broken off I hastened to publish the contradiction.”
“On reading the first announcement,” I said, “I imagined that you had at length found a man whom you loved, and that you would marry and be happy. I am sure I regret that it is not so.”
“Why?” she asked, regarding me with some surprise. “Do you wish to see me married, then?”
“Not to a man you cannot love,” I hastened to assure her. I was trying to learn from her the reason of her sudden renewed friendship and confidence, yet she was careful not to refer to it. Her extreme care in this particular was, in itself, suspicious.
Her effort at coquetry when at my chambers two days before made it apparent that she was prepared to accept my love, if I so desired. Yet the remembrance of Eva Glaslyn was ever in my mind. This woman at my side had once played me false, and had caused a rent in my heart which was difficult to heal. She was pretty and charming, without doubt, yet she had never been frank, even in those long-past days at Shenley. Once again I told myself that the only woman I had looked upon with thoughts of real genuine affection was the mysterious Eva, whom once, with my own eyes, I had seen cold and dead. When I reflected upon the latter fact I became puzzled almost to the verge of madness.
Yet upon me, situated as I was, devolved the duty of solving the enigma.