His voice had grown so incisive and cold that it scarcely seemed to be he that was talking.
Alice was really crying now. I shouldn't have told you, she sobbed. Only, it seemed to be the right time . . . and . . . and I thought you loved me, Harold . . . I couldn't help telling you, Harold, because I love you.
He ignored this. How did you find all this out? was his next question.
She was trembling. Your father, she began.
Our meeting . . . the stalled car . . . arranged? He was sneering.
No, Harold, no! That was an—accident. Only . . .
Only what?
Only, you see, after we met . . . Well, your father, of course, knows my father. . . . It seemed best to keep us apart.
You knew all this?
Why yes, Harold. It seemed all right. I loved you, Harold, and they told me. . . .
Did Campaspe know?
She stopped crying at once and her tone became petulant.
Campaspe? Why do you bring in Campaspe? Campaspe! Campaspe! Campaspe! Why are you questioning me? Why do you look at me like that?
Did Campaspe know? His tone was colder, more acid.
