He considered the matter in silence for a few moments.  Then half-quizzically, “I don’t see that that is any reason for throwing me over now,” he said.  “If you don’t love me to-day, you will to-morrow.”

She shook her head.

“Quite sure?” he said.

“Quite,” she answered faintly.

His hand was still upon her head, and it remained there.  He held her closely pressed to him.

For a space again he was silent, his dark face bent over her, his lips actually touching her hair.  Of what was passing in his mind she had no notion, and she dared not lift her head to look.  She dreaded each moment a return of that tornado-like passion that had so often appalled her.  But it did not come.  His arms held her indeed, but without violence, and in his stillness there was no tension to denote its presence.

He spoke at length, almost whispering.  “Dinah, who is the lucky fellow?  Tell me!”

She started away from him.  She almost cried out in her dismay.  But he stopped her.  He took her face between his hands with an insistence that would not be denied.  He looked closely, searchingly, into her eyes.

“Is it Scott?” he said.

She did not answer him.  She stood as one paralysed, and up over face and neck and all her trembling body, enwrapping her like a flame, there rose a scorching, agonizing blush.

He held her there before him and watched it, and she saw that his eyes were piercingly bright, with the brightness of burnished steel.  She could not turn her own away from them, though her whole soul shrank from that stark scrutiny.  In anguish of mind she faced him, helpless, unutterably ashamed, while that burning blush throbbed fiercely through every vein and gradually died away.

He let her go at last very slowly.  “I—­see,” he said.

She put her hands up over her face with a childish, piteous gesture.  She felt as if he had ruthlessly torn from her the one secret treasure that she cherished.  She was free—­she knew she was free.  But at what a cost!

“So,” Eustace said, “that’s it, is it?  We’ve got at the truth at last!”

She quivered at the words.  Her whole being seemed to be shrivelled as though it had passed through the fire.  He had wrenched her secret from her, and she had nothing more to hide.

Sir Eustace walked to the end of the room and back.  He halted close to her, but he did not touch her.  He spoke, briefly and sternly.

“How long has this been going on?”

She looked up at him, her face pathetically pinched and small.  “It hasn’t been going on.  I—­only realized it to-day.  He doesn’t know.  He never must know!” A sudden sharp note of anxiety sounded in her voice.  “He never must know!” she reiterated with emphasis.

“He hasn’t made love to you then?” Sir Eustace spoke in the same curt tone; his mouth was merciless.

She started as if stung.  “Oh no!  Oh no!  Of course he hasn’t!  He—­he doesn’t care for me—­like that.  Why should he?”