"Then you've been making a great mistake, Jerry," he said. "Miss
Quentin doesn't in the least resemble ordinary mortals. She isn't
afflicted by like passions with ourselves, and she doesn't
understand--or forgive them."
The words, uttered as though in jest, held an undercurrent of meaning
for Diana that sent the colour flying up under her clear skin. There
was a bitter taunt in them that none knew better than she how to
interpret.
She winced under it, and a fierce resentment flared up within her that
he should dare to reproach, her--he, who had been the offender from
first to last. Always, now, he seemed to be laughing at her, mocking
her. He appeared an entirely different person from the man who had
been so careful of her welfare during the eventful journey they had
made together.
She lifted her head a little defiantly.
"No," she said, with significance. "I certainly don't understand--some
people."
"Perhaps it's just as well," retorted Errington, unmoved.
Jerry, sensing electricity in the atmosphere, looked troubled and
uncomfortable. He hadn't the faintest idea what they were talking
about, but it was perfectly clear to him that everything was not quite
as it should be between his beloved Max and this new friend, this jolly
little girl with the wonderful eyes--just like a pair of stars, by
Jove!--and, if rumour spoke truly, the even more wonderful voice.
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