"I thought perhaps you might be in need of help," he said quietly.
Her lip curled, and her slender wrists grew tense with the strain upon them.
"For what? John and Patrick can take care of my husband. Mr. Lorimer is—very ill; but we are quite capable of taking care of him. Why should I need help?" She watched him in silent hostility. Then, as she saw the sudden drawing of his lips, her mood changed. This was her friend, the only friend who was near her and loyal to her. She must not hurt him with her bitterness, lest he too should fail her, just as Lorimer already had done. For months, she had unconsciously depended upon his loyalty. Now she sought it consciously. "What is the use of keeping up the pretence any longer?" she went on drearily. "You have been with us day after day; you know how things are going; you know how my husband has—that he has not always been himself." Even in her desperation, she still chose her words guardedly. "Do you think I ever could have held him?"
Slowly Thayer shook his head.
"No," he said in a low voice. "No; you never could have held him. It was impossible."
"Then why didn't you warn me?" she burst out hotly.
He looked her straight in the eye.
"How could I?"
Her face flushed with the sudden understanding. Then the old dreary note came back into her voice.
"And you have known from the first that it was all a mistake?"