Conway's dark eyes met hers for a moment with answering love in their dark depths. Only a moment, though, and then they wavered and fell, and he indifferently answered her mute question:
"You look surprised, _ma petite_. Well, it is true that I leave here to-morrow for an extended tour over Europe. I have long thought of it, and the time has come at last."
No answer. She could not have spoken if life or death had hung on a single sentence from those sweet lips, from whence the rose-tint had faded, leaving them cold and white, and drawn as if in pain. She gathered up her fragrant burdens and carried them into the house, leaving a momentary shocked silence behind her.
Presently the captain spoke, in the calm, assured tone in which we chide a dear and intimate friend:
"Bruce, have you been flirting with that pretty, innocent child?"
Conway fidgeted a little, but he answered nonchalantly enough:
"Why do you ask? Have you fallen in love with her?"
"I was not speaking of myself; we will keep to the subject, if you please. She _loves_ you." His voice grew tender, reverential.
That simple monosyllable might have expressed many things. In Bruce Conway's non-committal tone it meant nothing.
The words came out with a jerk, as if they must be said, and the sooner the better. The purple twilight hid his face and expression, yet the captain persevered:
"Taking your assertion for granted," said Conway, coolly, "is that any reason why I should marry Miss Grey?"
"Very probably; but, _mon ami_, your view on this, as on many other things, are old-fashioned and absurd, or, at least, behind the times we live in. Do you happen to know, old fellow, that I have completely run through my handsome fortune, and that my 'great expectations' as my aunt's solo heir and favorite are all I have to depend on?"
"'What then?'" boyishly mimicking the sober tone of the older man. "If I must tell you, Clen, my aunt has positively interdicted me from making love to her fair companion. I might be courteously polite, soberly kind--nothing more, on pain of disinheritance and eternal banishment from my relative's imperious presence."
"Not I. I have debarred myself from that exquisite pleasure, and kept strictly to the letter of my aunt's command. I have never told her I loved her, never addressed her a single word of love, save in the ideal, poetical quotations to which she can attach no real meaning. I am not to blame," talking a little savagely; "and I suffer, too. I must go away. It is madness for me to stay here longer, and cruel to her. My heart aches for her--she is so fair, so pure, so trusting. I dare not stay here another day, or I should break through Aunt Conway's prohibition and tell her all that is in my heart. But once away from the sight of her maddening beauty, I can forget her, and returning home some time, take possession of my handsome inheritance, and thank my lucky stars for the decision I made to-day."