“What did he tell you?” she asked, as they moved away. “How could he say anything worse than what he said before me?”
“He told me something that was worse—much worse.”
She looked troubled and as if she did not understand.
“But he said that I was a flirt, and that I couldn’t speak the truth, and that I drove people—”
“Yes, I remember all that; but this was infinitely worse.”
“Infinitely worse!”
“Yes.”
She stopped in an angle where the big room dwindled into a narrow gallery, and stared astonished.
“I can’t at all understand,” she said.
“No, you can’t,” he said, “and I can’t tell you—I mustn’t tell you—how terrible it is to me to look at you and think of what he told me.”