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 She could hear no more of this unintelligible rambling without checking him. She felt that she was overhearing what was meant for another.

“I don’t understand,” she said. “You’re saying things that you don’t mean.”

“I mean every word I say,” he replied, emphatically. He turned his head towards her. She recovered the words she was searching for while he spoke. “Ralph Denham is in love with you.” They came back to her in Mary Datchet’s voice. Her anger blazed up in her.

“I saw Mary Datchet this afternoon,” she exclaimed.

He made a movement as if he were surprised or taken aback, but answered in a moment:

“She told you that I had asked her to marry me, I suppose?”

“No!” Katharine exclaimed, in surprise.

“I did though. It was the day I saw you at Lincoln,” he continued. “I had meant to ask her to marry me, and then I looked out of the window and saw you. After that I didn’t want to ask any one to marry me. But I did it; and she knew I was lying, and refused me. I thought then, and still think, that she cares for me. I behaved very badly. I don’t defend myself.”

“No,” said Katharine, “I should hope not. There’s no defence that I can think of. If any conduct is wrong, that is.” She spoke with an energy that was directed even more against herself than against him. “It seems to me,” she continued, with the same energy, “that people are bound to be honest. There’s no excuse for such behaviour.” She could now see plainly before her eyes the expression on Mary Datchet’s face.

After a short pause, he said:

“I am not telling you that I am in love with you. I am not in love with you.”

“I didn’t think that,” she replied, conscious of some bewilderment.