Nothing had altered within
her, and yet a wonderful pity was glowing in her heart, tearing at
her emotions, bringing a sob into her throat.
"You mean--Henry?" she faltered.
"I mean your husband," he assented.
She was suddenly passionately angry with herself. It seemed to her
that the days of childishness were back. She was behaving like an
imbecile whilst he played the great game.
"You see," he went on, his own voice a little unsteady, "this is
one of those moments in both our lives when anything except the
exact truth would mean shipwreck. You still love your husband?"
"I am such a fool!" she sobbed, clutching at his arm.
"You were willing to go away with me," he continued mercilessly,
"partly because of the anger you felt towards him, and partly out
of revenge, and just a little because you liked me. Is that not so?"
Her head pressed upon his arm. She nodded. It was just that
convulsive movement of her head, with its wealth of wonderful hair
and its plain black motoring hat, which dealt the death-blow to his
hopes. She was just a child once more--and she trusted him.
"Very well, then," he said, "just let me think--for a moment."
She understood enough not to raise her head. Lessingham was gazing
out through the chaotic shadows of the distant banks of clouds from
which the moon was rising.
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