"Do you remember?" he persisted, quietly. In his college days
men who heard that tone of quiet persistence had been wont to
lose heart. Eve heard it now for the first time, and, without
being aware, answered to it.
"Yes, I remember," she said.
"On that day you believed in me--" In his earnestness he no
longer simulated Chilcote; he spoke with his own steady
reliance. He saw Eve stir, unclasp and clasp her hands, but
he went steadily on. "On that day you saw me in a new light.
You acknowledged me." He emphasized the slightly peculiar
word. "But since that day"--his voice quickened "since that
day your feelings have changed--your faith in me has fallen
away." He watched her closely; but she made no sign, save to
lean still nearer to the fire. He crossed his arms over the
back of her chair. "You were justified," he said, suddenly.
"I've not been--myself since that day." As he said the words
his coolness forsook him slightly. He loathed the necessary
lie, yet his egotism clamored for vindication.
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