‘I must go back to the house,’ she faltered. ‘The servants will have risen by this time. Of course one ought to feel tired, and to want rest.’ She stooped, under pretence of picking up the platter and jug, in reality to hide her face from the man who loved her. But her fingers were unsteady. An instant more, jug and platter both were slipping from her grasp, when Geff, quick of eye and touch, caught them, and Marjorie’s hand as well. She did not say again that nonsense talk offended her. ‘I should like you to understand one thing, Mr. Arbuthnot.’ It was a good while later on when she told Geoffrey this. Her slight hands rested unresistingly in his, the unmistakable print of love confessed was on the faces of both. ‘Perhaps what I am going to say will make you alter your opinion of me; it must be said, all the same. There shall be no Bluebeard secrets between us to come to light hereafter. There was a fortnight’s mistake in my life, once. I--I----’ the word seemed to scorch her lips as they passed them, ‘have been engaged before.’ ‘So the voice of gossip told me, long ago, Miss Bartrand.’ In an instant Marjorie rested her cheek, with a child’s rather than a woman’s gesture, against Geoffrey’s arm. ‘You ought not to say “Miss Bartrand,” now. From this day until death comes between us I must be “Marjorie” to you.’ ‘Marjorie,’ repeated Geff, with quick obedience. ‘What concern of mine is it that you were engaged before you knew me? I dare say I shall be an ogre of jealousy in the future. I cannot be jealous retrospectively. The evil passion will date from this present hour, only.’ But Marjorie insisted, whatever pain it cost her, on giving him the details of her first engagement, yes, even to the ring she accepted, to the tears she shed over Jock, the setter puppy. And would Geoffrey have felt no concern, she asked him, with a flush, in conclusion, had things been different? Could he have felt no retrospective jealousy if she had happened to care for Major Tredennis? ‘I like to think you did not care for him. I like supremely to know you care for me,’ was Geoffrey’s answer. ‘Because, of course, no human being can, honestly, love twice,’ observed Marjorie Bartrand, with conviction. ‘It must be all or nothing. I wish you to know, although I was weak enough to be engaged to Major Tredennis and to take his presents, and to listen to his French songs, it was nothing. I could not look into your face as I am looking now, if I had cared the value of an old glove for him, or for any man.’