“Were you alone the whole time?” I inquired, regarding her intently.
Her lips quivered slightly and her glance wavered. “Yes,” she answered, “I did not meet anyone I knew.”
“That is a lie, Ella!” I cried.
“It is not,” she stammered, pale and agitated. “I have told you the truth.”
“To prevaricate is utterly useless,” I said angrily. “I followed you through Kensington Gardens, where you were walking with your lover. I—”
“My lover?” she cried hoarsely, in dismay. “He—he is not my lover. I had never seen him before!”
“Then by your own admission you have abandoned all respect for me and yourself. You are addicted to strolling alone with any idiot who flatters you.”
“I swear I do not,” she retorted. “You misjudge me entirely.” And she placed her trembling hand upon my arm.
But I shook it off wrathfully, saying, “I have discovered the truth, alas! too late. While making pretence to love me you prefer the society of other men. I was a blind fool, or I should have discovered the fact, plain to everybody else, that Ogle was your lover, and that you mourned for him when he met the fate he so justly deserved.”
“He never uttered one word of love to me, Geoffrey,” she protested. “How can you make such horrible charges against me when I love you so dearly,” she cried, bursting into a torrent of tears.