and said in a low, bitter tone: "I hate you. I once loved you--but I
hate you now!" Then he laughed scornfully, and fell back on the pillow.
She had been sitting very quietly, musing. His action had been
unexpected, and had broken upon a silence. She rose to her feet quickly,
gave a sharp indrawn breath, and pressed her hand against her side, as
though a sudden pain had seized her. The next moment, however, she was
composed again, and said in explanation that she had been half asleep,
and he had startled her. But I had seen her under what seemed to me more
trying conditions, and she had not shown any nervousness such as this.

The passengers, of course, talked. Many "true histories" of Mrs.
Falchion's devotion to the sick man were abroad; but it must be said,
however, that all of them were romantically creditable to her. She had
become a rare product even in the eyes of Miss Treherne, and more
particularly her father, since the matter at the Tanks. Justine Caron
was slyly besieged by the curious, but they went away empty; for Justine,
if very simple and single-minded, was yet too much concerned for both
Galt Roscoe and Mrs. Falchion to give the inquiring the slightest clue.
She knew, indeed, little herself, whatever she may have guessed. As for
Hungerford, he was dumb. He refused to consider the matter. But he
roundly maintained once or twice, without any apparent relevance, that
a woman was like a repeating decimal--you could follow her, but you never
could reach her. He usually added to this: "Minus one, Marmion," meaning
thus to exclude the girl who preferred him to any one else. When I
ventured to suggest that Miss Treherne might also be excepted, he said,
with maddening suggestion: "She lets Mrs. Falchion fool her, doesn't she?
And she isn't quite sure the splendour of a medical professor's position
is superior to that of an author."

In these moments, although I tried to smile on him, I hated him a little.