“Yes, Max, I do,” she murmured. “I do—but I—”
“But what?” he asked, looking straight into her fine eyes and waiting for her to continue.
She averted his gaze, and slowly but firmly disengaged herself from his embrace, while he, on his part, wondered.
She was silent, her face pale, and in her eyes a look of sudden fear.
“Tell me, darling,” he whispered. “You have something to say to me—is not that so?”
He loved her, he told himself, as truly as any man had ever loved a woman. It was only that one little suspicion that had arisen—the suspicion that she had not been to Queen’s Hall with his friend’s daughter.
He took her hand lightly in his and raised it courteously to his lips, but she drew it away, crying, “No! No, Max! No.”
“No?” he gasped, staring at her. “What do you mean, Marion. Tell me what you mean.”
“I—I mean that—that though we may love each other, perfect trust does not exist between us.”
“As far as I’m concerned it does,” he declared, even though he knew that his words were not exactly the truth. “Why have you so suddenly changed towards me, Marion? You are my love. I care for no one save yourself. You surely know that—have I not told you so a hundred times? Do you still doubt me?”