Her words had caused me considerable misgiving, for it was now entirely plain that, contrary to what I had confidently believed, namely, that she loved me, she in reality held me in contempt as weak and fickle, influenced by every pretty face or wayward glance.
I looked at her again. Yes, my eyes were not love-blinded now. She was absolutely bewitching in her beauty. For the first time I became aware that there was but one woman I really loved, and that it was Muriel.
“I regret that you should not consider me to be still worthy your confidence,” I said, bending towards her seriously. “I have admitted everything, and have expressed regret. What more can I do?”
“Forget her!” she answered, with a quick petulance. “It is best to forget.”
“Ah!” I sighed. “That is unfortunately impossible.”
“Then you love her still!” she cried, turning upon me. “You love her!”
“No,” I answered. “I do not love her, because—”
“Because she treated you shabbily, and left without giving you her address, eh? You see, I know all the circumstances.”
“You are mistaken,” I protested. “I do not love her because I entertain a well-founded if perhaps absurd suspicion.”
“Suspicion! What do you suspect?” she asked quickly.