He looked up. "Are you mad?" he asked quietly.
"No. But--you seem to be trying to make me mad. I can't understand you, Victor."
"Can't you, Brigit? I should think it was very easy. You remember what we agreed at Falaise? That----"
"That I was to marry Théo and 'live happy ever after'? Oh, yes, I remember. But do you remember how miserable you were the day before--and the day of--the wedding? And why that was?"
"Yes," he answered humbly. "I know. I was--jealous."
"Well--and you expect me to be happy and content while you behave as you are doing now? You never speak to me; you never look at me; you fly from me as if I were an infectious disease. It is--unbearable," she ended passionately. "I can't bear it."
He smoked in silence for some seconds. "I am--sorry to have hurt you, Brigit."
"Sorry to have hurt me! I don't believe you love me. If you were jealous, so am I! I will _not_ be treated like this."
His white face was like a mask. "I am sorry," he repeated, with a kind of dogged patience.
"Then if you are--be good to me. I love you, Victor."
He met her eyes and his did not falter in their steady gaze. "Please do not excite yourself," he said very gently, "and--I think I will go in now. It must be breakfast time."
Driven beyond her own control by his tone, she caught his arm and pleaded with him, her voice harsh and broken, and she could not stop, although she saw that she was, besides annoying him, injuring herself in his eyes.
"Then tell me that you love me. You can't have stopped--it is only a week since the wedding--I--can't bear this----"
But her mistaken line of conduct brought its inevitable punishment. "This is--absurd," he said coldly, "and--undignified. I told you at Falaise that I was ashamed of myself for being jealous of my son. It was monstrous and hideous. I think I have been not quite in my right mind for some time. But I have a strong will and can force myself to anything----"
"And you are forcing yourself to kill your love for me----"
"No. I am trying to learn to love you as a--a daughter, and I am beginning to succeed. But if you insist in making scenes like this----" He broke off and gave his shoulders an expressive shrug. "It is--not womanly."
Then, breaking the yellow rose from the bush, he drew its stem through his button-hole and strolled leisurely away, whistling under his breath.