For a moment the girl did not reply. A flood of sad memories swept through her mind at the mention of Harry Bellairs.
"Yes," she replied, "we were great friends. He took me to concerts and matinées in town sometimes. Sir Hugh always said he was a man bound to make his mark. He had earned his D.S.O. with French at Mons and was twice mentioned in dispatches."
"And you, Enid," he said, still speaking very slowly, his dark eyes fixed upon hers, "you would probably have consented to become Mrs. Bellairs had he lived to ask you? Tell me the truth."
Her eyes were cast down; he saw in them the light of unshed tears.
"Pardon me for referring to such a painful subject," he hastened to say, "but it is imperative."
"I thought that you were—were unaware of the sad affair," she faltered.
"So I was until quite recently," he replied. "I know how deeply it must pain you to speak of it, but will you please explain to me the actual facts? I know that you are better acquainted with them than anyone else."
"The facts of poor Harry's death," she repeated hoarsely, as though speaking to herself. "Why recall them? Oh! why recall them?"
