“Then you love another man!” I cried fiercely.
“In a month’s time I am to be married.”
“But you shall not, Ella!” I exclaimed quickly and determinedly. “You are mine. Surely I have a prior claim to you! You loved me in the old days—you surely cannot deny that!”
“I do not deny it, Godfrey,” she said, in that same sweet, soft voice that had so long rung in my ears. “Unfortunately I did not know that you still retained any affection for me. I made inquiries, but no one knew where you were, except that you were always abroad. For aught I knew you might already be married. Therefore, I am not altogether to blame.”
“Who is the man?” I asked, with a fierce jealousy rising within me. Was this fellow, whoever he might be, to rob me, after all, of my love, whom I had so fortunately rediscovered?
“I regret it, but I cannot tell you his name.”
“Not tell me his name!” I cried. “Why not? What mystery need there be if you are to be married?”
“I have promised to say nothing until we are man and wife,” she answered. “You alone, Godfrey, have I told because—well, because I dare not again deceive you.”
“Then you still love me!” I exclaimed quickly. “Confess the truth.”
“What is the use of discussing affection?” she asked. “The die is cast. At the very moment when we meet again after this long separation, we find ourselves debarred from happiness. We can never become man and wife.”