There was a queer ring in his voice which made her look up; something in his face disturbed her.
"What's the matter?"
He took his arms from about her and got up.
"Yetta," he said, pacing the room, "I suppose I'm a fool to ask you. But how much do you want to know? Very few men in this world of ours live up to their own ideals. I certainly haven't. I told you I was getting gray. Well—she's one of the gray spots—inside. I'd rather not tell you about it. It will only hurt you. But I'm not a good liar. You noticed something at the bare mention of her name. But if you want to know, I'll tell you."
For a moment Yetta was silent.
"I think you'd better tell me," she said. "I'm not afraid."
But she was. She had accepted the idea that Mabel had preceded her in his affection. She had not thought of other women. This was disturbing enough. But what really frightened her was that he was reluctant to tell. If there was any one tangible thing which love meant to her, it was frankness. She had told him everything without his asking. Here was something he had held back. What it was did not matter so much as the different point of view it showed. It was startling to realize how very little she knew of his life.
He pulled up a chair beside the window-seat where she lay, and told her about Beatrice; told it in a way that did not make her seem offensive to Yetta. He told the story as truthfully as might be, without giving its real explanation—his heartbreak over Mabel. He did not want to bring this in. If Yetta had asked him point-blank how long it was since he had been in love with Mabel, he would not have tried to deceive her. But the telling of it would only distress her.
"It may not sound to you like a pretty story," he ended. "I'm not proud of it. But I'm not exactly ashamed either. It's a sick sort of a world we live in. There are better days coming when the relations between men and women will be saner and sweeter—and finer. But I don't think more lightly of Beatrice because of this. She's a remarkable woman. Life has not been very kind to her. But she's fought her way to the place where she is through with pretence. That at least was fine about our friendship. We were not pretending. I haven't told it very well, perhaps I haven't made you understand. But I hope Beatrice can look back on it without being ashamed. I can."