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“He wasn’t your friend,” she repeated. “He hasn’t been for years. He was a friend of mine.”

“Why, Charley Hart was—”

“I know what you’re going to say—that Charley was a friend to both of us. But it isn’t true. I don’t know how he considered you at first but he stopped being your friend three or four years ago.”

“Why—” Michael’s eyes glowed with astonishment. “If that’s true, why was he with us all the time?”

“On account of me,” said Marion steadily. “He was in love with me.”

“What?” Michael laughed incredulously. “You’re imagining things. I know how he used to pretend in a kidding way—”

“It wasn’t kidding,” she interrupted, “not underneath. It began that way—and it ended by his asking me to run away with him.”

Michael frowned.

“Go on,” he said quietly. “I suppose this is true or you wouldn’t be telling me about it—but it simply doesn’t seem real. Did he just suddenly begin to—to—”

He closed his mouth suddenly, unable to say the words.

“It began one night when we three were out dancing,” Marion hesitated. “And at first I thoroughly enjoyed it. He had a faculty for noticing things—noticing dresses and hats and the new ways I’d do my hair. He was good company. He could always make me feel important, somehow, and attractive. Don’t get the idea that I preferred his company to yours—I didn’t. I knew how completely selfish he was, and what a will-o’-the-wisp. But I encouraged him, I suppose—I thought it was fine. It was a new angle on Charley, and he was amusing at it, just as he was at everything he did.”