“It is very hard, Richard,” she said, keeping her eyes fixed upon her satin slippers.
She flashed up petulantly, her eyes beginning to glitter.
“To be sure, I am ugly now, an old fright; I shall never be pretty again. Don’t deny it, Richard; I saw it all in your eyes from the first moment. Yes, I am ugly, and very miserable, and it is hard and bitter and cruel. I am beginning to hate myself just as everybody else will hate me.”
Jeffray hung his head, looked as ashamed and contrite as though every word accused him of dishonor. Yet for the life of him he could not forget Bess Grimshaw’s face, the scent of her clothes, the glimmer of her hair. The generous hypocrisies died unuttered on his tongue. His sincerity grappled him; he was sorry for Jilian, but he could not do his pity justice.
“It is all my fault,” he said, dejectedly.
Miss Hardacre’s fingers were crushing her handkerchief into a ball. The interview was proving too bitter to her, and she was beginning to revolt against Jeffray’s apathy. Why did he not try to comfort her? She would never have believed that Richard had so hard a heart.
Jeffray blushed, and looked almost afraid to meet her eyes.
“Of course, men change. They only care for a pretty face, and love only so long as the woman pleases them. Is not that so, Richard?”
“For God’s sake, Jilian, don’t talk like this—”
“Yes, yes, that is very well, but can I—a woman—help seeing the truth?”
Jeffray drew a deep breath and leaned back against the harpsichord.
“I know it is all my fault,” he said, “and I am very miserable over what has happened. Leave me alone a moment, and let me take it all in. I am just as unhappy as you are, Jilian; it is no use my pretending that I do not see the change in you.”
Jeffray, full of the egotism of a man in love, could not have spoken more biting words. Jilian started as though he had struck her, rose up from the settle with a sudden dignity and restraint that made Richard appear wholly in the wrong. She made him a slight courtesy, turned on her heel, and walked towards the door.
“To be sure, you must think it over, cousin,” she said, with a vicious sneer; “remember that I am ugly, and remember also that you have told me so.”
“Think it over, sir, but do not imagine that I am going to be thrown aside like a soiled shoe. I have more pride, more conceit, than that. No, I have no wish to have all the women jeering and laughing behind my back. You understand me, Richard, eh? Very good. Think it over, by all means, but remember that we are betrothed.”