“Even if there were, do you expect me to make you my Father Confessor?”
“No, indeed; but I do think you might give us a hint—I mean your friends—of what it is that has come between us.”
For a moment she found it difficult to answer. At last she said:
“Well, there is something, I admit; something that claims all my time. I am sorry I cannot tell you more, for it is not my own secret.”
“I see—it belongs to another.”
Evidently Sophy had discovered the truth at last—a truth that was withering her youth and crushing her to the earth. His quick eye understood the signs of strain and fatigue; all life and light had faded from her face, and he realised that she was, as Fuchsia had described, “terribly changed.”
For a moment neither of them spoke; she fidgeted with a turquoise ring—it was much too loose, or her fingers were much too thin, for it suddenly slipped, dropped into her lap and then rolled far away upon the floor with an air of impudent independence.
Shafto, as he searched for and picked up this ring, felt something forcing and driving him to speak and, after a moment’s reflection, he made up his mind to dare all.
“I believe I know your secret,” was his bold announcement, as he restored her property.
“You!” she ejaculated. “That is impossible.”