She interrupted him angrily. "So! That is the explanation? Now, we are getting the real truth. That is why I am to stay shut up here. That is why I am not to go to my friend's house."
"Have you seen Dick Fenway there?" He was angry now himself, hurt by her tone, and jealous of the thought of this man, whom he knew to be unworthy of any decent girl's acquaintance. "Have you seen him there?" he repeated as he turned away scornfully.
"Are you trying to insult me?" she demanded.
"Have you seen him at all since the day he did his best to kill you?"
"No," she replied coldly. "I have not, and now, if you think that you have hurt me enough, you may go, or are you anxious to accuse me of anything more?"
"Lola," John began gravely, "I am sorry, but you have not been frank with me. I had a right to ask you that question. I am glad that you could answer it as you did."
"I hope, John," she replied, "that before our marriage does take place you will have learned to trust me."
"Lola," he cried, remorseful, "I do trust you."
"No, John." She avoided him as he tried to put his arm about her. "Please go now. I am not angry, but you have hurt me. I think that you had better go. By to-night we will have forgotten it, or at least we will try to forget."
"I must be a beast of a fellow," he said, quite convinced of his own unreasonable temper. "I am always hurting you, and yet I never mean to do it. Forgive me, Lola. I will try to do better after this."
He tried to kiss her, but she drew herself away, and he had to leave her, although his heart ached and he felt that between them each day that passed was bringing a more complete misunderstanding. He had done his best; once away from the witchery of her presence he was sure of that, but the old confidence, the sweetness of perfect understanding had already gone. His nature was a generous one, and he tried to convince himself that the fault must be his, but how? In what had he failed? He could not answer, but once more he made up his mind to be patient and tender. He knew little of women, but if their natures were more complex, their moods more uncertain, he could only do his best to try to understand. Of one thing alone he was sure, as sure as he was of his own life, her perfect loyalty, her real purity, and, after all, was not that enough? What right had he to ask for more?