“Would you have been sorry if I had, Laura?” he asked.
“You know I should. I—I should never have forgiven myself,” said Laura, who during the communings with her own soul that afternoon had reached at any rate one sensible decision. “You see, it’s—it’s all my own fault. I’ve been on the verge of telling you the truth a hundred times, and goodness only knows why I never did.” She paused awkwardly. “You see,” she blurted out, “the whole thing started as just a silly joke.”
“A joke?” echoed Mr. Priestley stupidly. Somehow this was a development he had not anticipated.
“Yes,” Laura continued rapidly. “I don’t dare wonder what you’re going to think of me, considering how kind you’ve been and—and everything, but this is the truth.” She proceeded to tell it.
Mr. Priestley listened with one ear, his other busy with the almost audible buzzing of his own brain. What was Laura working up to? What was he going to do when she had worked up to it? What—what—what?
Laura went on, excusing nothing, glossing over nothing, pouring upon her own devoted head every drop of blame.
“And now this other extraordinary affair crops up,” she concluded, and mentioned her telepathic theory. “That must be the explanation. It’s quite possible, isn’t it? Oh, Mr. Priestley——”
“Matthew,” interjected Mr. Priestley automatically.
“Matthew, will you ever forgive me?”
Mr. Priestley looked dumbly at the contrite spectacle before him. He did not speak because every bone was busy telling him that this was not Laura’s climax. What was coming next he had not the faintest idea, but he did not wish to commit himself.