"Not angry," she said, in a low voice, hesitating somewhat. "I was hurt and indignant—you ought to trust me, my husband."
"I do, dearest, I do trust you! Why should I not? There is no secret between us, Bessie—no mystery—nothing which keeps our hearts asunder!"
She was silent—she was struggling for power to speak, knowing that every second of hesitation told against her in a way which volumes of protestation could never counteract.
"There is no such cloud between us?" he said again.
"No, Grantley, no!"
She spoke almost sharply.
"Don't be angry with me, Elizabeth."
"I am not, indeed I am not!"
She was speaking firmly now—her voice was a little hard, like that of a person making an effort to appear natural.
"I am not angry, but I ask you to reason—to reflect. What secret could I have—what mystery?"