"Tell that to the Marines, my
child, not to yours truly! You never set eyes on Jim Beckett. He never
went near your hospital. You never came near the training-camp. You seem
to have forgotten that I was on the spot."
"I met him before the war," I said.
"What's that?" Julian didn't know whether to believe me or not, but his
forehead flushed to the black line of his low-growing hair.
"I never told you, because there was no need to tell," I went on. "But
it's true. I fell in love with Jim Beckett then, and--_he cared for
me_."
For the first time I realized that Julian O'Farrell's "love" wasn't all
pretence. His flush died, and left him pale with that sick,
greenish-olive pallor which men of Latin blood have when they're near
fainting. He opened his lips, but did not speak, because, I think, he
could not. If I'd wanted revenge for what he made me suffer when he
first thrust himself into my life, I had it then; but to my own surprise
I felt no pleasure in striking him. Instead I felt vaguely sorry, though
very distant from his plans and interests.
"You--you weren't engaged to Beckett, anyhow. I'm sure you weren't, or
you'd have had nothing to worry about when Dierdre and I turned up," he
faced me down.
"No, we weren't engaged," I admitted. "I--was just as much of a fraud as
you meant Dierdre to be with Father and Mother Beckett. I've no
excuse--except that it was for Brian's sake. But that's no excuse
really, and Brian would despise me if he knew.
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