"I should like to be able to think, Cynthia," said her husband, "that I had opened it when it came."
"But you didn't," said Cynthia, "and so--" she broke off her sentence. She took the telegram form, folded it, and replaced it in its envelope. She took a brush from a little bottle of gum which stood ready upon the table by the inkstand and, smearing the inner border of the envelope, stuck it down again. Then she stood up and turned to her husband. "And so," she continued, "you must take it, Harry, as though it were despatched to you by me only to-day for the first time and delivered to you here now at midnight."
She held out to him the telegram and he took it, gazing at her with a look of wonder. And then hope flamed in his eyes. Cynthia turned away abruptly. To her that swift flame of hope, of life, was almost intolerable.
"Then you knew," he cried.
Cynthia nodded her head, but she kept her face averted.
"I have known a long time," she answered in a low voice. "Ever since the letter came to you with the Rexland stamp."
The sound of her voice and her attitude pierced to Rames's heart. His exultation gave way to concern.
"I am very sorry, Cynthia," he said gently. "I tried to hide it."
"Oh, my dear, I know you did. With all your strength you tried to hide it. You watched yourself each minute. But," and she turned to him with a little smile of tenderness, "I watched you closer still, and the longing grew too big to be hidden."
Harry Rames made no pretence to deny the truth of her words, knowing full well that all denial would be vain. The screen was down between them.