"You need not explain that."
English's head was bent. His voice was very quiet, but Bethune's whole being thrilled to the tumult he inarticularly felt in the other's soul. He half put out his hand to touch him, then drew it back.
"Go on with your story—with your own part of the story," said Harry.
"She did not want to read them," said Bethune. "I made her."
The husband offered no comment; and, drawing a long breath like a child, his friend went on:
"And when she read at last—oh! even I could see it—it was as if her heart broke."
Still the bent head, the hands clasped over the knees, the silence. Bethune could bear it no longer, and took courage to lay that touch of timid eager sympathy upon English's shoulder.
"Harry, I'm such a fool, I can't explain things."
"Oh, I understand," answered English then, in a deep vibrating voice. He rose suddenly and squared himself, drawing in the air in a long sigh. "Do you think I could misunderstand—her?"
Their looks met. There was a wonderful mixture of sweetness and sorrow on the face of him whom life and death had equally betrayed.