“It’s useless to prevaricate, Ella,” I said, rather impatiently. “You say that if I knew all I would never utter words of love to you. What do you mean?”
“Exactly what I wrote,” she answered huskily, in a low voice.
“You mean to imply that you are unworthy of the love of an honest man?” I observed in astonishment.
“Yes,” she gasped hoarsely. “I do not—I—cannot deceive you, Geoffrey, because I love you.” The last sentence she uttered passionately, with a fierce fire burning in her eyes. “You are jealous of Andrew Beck, a man old enough to be my father. Well, I confess I was foolish to allow him to walk with me here with his arm around my waist; yet at that moment the indiscretion did not occur to me.”
“But he was speaking to you—whispering into your ready ears words of love and tenderness. He spoke in persuasive tones, as if begging you to become his wife,” I said angrily, the very thought of the scene I had witnessed filling me with indignation and bitter hatred.
“No, you are entirely mistaken, Geoffrey. No word of love passed between us,” she said quietly, looking into my eyes with unwavering glance.
I smiled incredulously.
“You will perhaps deny that here, within six yards of this very spot, you stopped and burst forth into tears?” I exclaimed, with cold cynicism.
“I admit that. The words he uttered were of sufficient significance to bring tears to my eyes,” she replied vaguely.
“He must have spoken words of love to you,” I argued. “I watched you both.”