She smiled at this want of logic, so unlike her methodical husband.
"I could not consult you, dear," she said. "You won't be here."
"No, no, I know," he insisted; "but I want you to promise that you will leave things as they are until my return. I don't want you to give anything away to Elza, or to Philip or Anna. Promise me."
"Of course I'll promise," she replied readily. "God knows I don't want to be the one to break the awful news to them."
"Or to Peter," he added gravely.
"Peter?"
"I want you to promise me—to promise, Rosemary, that you will not speak of this miserable affair to Peter Blakeney."
Then, as she seemed to hesitate, vaguely puzzled at his desperate earnestness, he again insisted:
"Promise me, Rosemary, whatever you may hear, whatever you may see, whatever may be planned by Elza or anybody else, promise me that you will not speak of it to Peter."
"But, Jasper," she exclaimed, "why? Of course I will promise, if you wish it, but frankly I don't understand why you insist, so solemnly too," she added, trying to assume a lightness of heart which she was far from feeling. Then she went on more gravely: "I could trust Peter as I would myself."