feelings--not as hard as I ought, perhaps, when I realise how little I
have to offer to your sister. Now you understand all, don't you--even if
you didn't before? I love her, and if I go to Algiers--"

"Don't say any more," I managed to cut him short. "I can't bear--I mean,
I understand. I--did guess before."

It was true. I had guessed, but I wouldn't let myself believe. I hoped
against hope. He was so much kinder to me than any other man ever took
the trouble to be, in all my wretched, embittered twenty-four years of
life.

"Di might have told me," I went gasping on, rather than let there be a
long silence between us just then. I had enough pride not to want him to
see me cry--though, if it could have made any difference, I would have
grovelled at his feet and wet them with my tears. "But she never does
tell me anything about herself."

"She's so unselfish and so fond of you, that probably she likes better
to talk about you instead," he defended her. And then I felt that I
could hate him, as much as I've always hated Di, deep down in my heart.
At that minute I should have liked to kill her, and watch his face when
he found her lying dead--out of his reach for ever.

"Besides," he hurried on, "I've never asked her yet if she would marry
me, because--my prospects weren't very brilliant. She knows of course
that I love her--"

"And if you get the consulship, you'll put the important question?" I
cut him short, trying to be flippant.