“I still can’t think that you were honest last night, Freda,” he continued. “I can’t think that you believe this confounded scandal.”
“No, Mauney,” she answered sadly. “I never believed it.”
“I can understand how you felt,” he admitted, “And I ought not to have been so precipitate. I ought to have denied it for you. I deny it now thoroughly and completely. Jean Byrne was an old school teacher of mine.”
“Oh, Mauney, you don’t need to explain. My faith in you never faltered a minute at any time. I was only afraid that I had hurt you.”
“You did, too,” he said, “But being hurt didn’t alter the fact that I loved you, and that I love you right now more than any thing on earth.”
He rose and walked to her chair.
“Freda,” he said tenderly, “I can’t go on living without you. You are necessary to me. Tell me that you care as little as I do about this scandal!”
“It’s nothing—just nothing,” she replied, rising and walking to the window.
He followed her, and as he saw her white gown rimmed with the strong sunshine, and her black hair caught in a fringe of golden light his heart bounded. Here before him was the living woman he loved. She was his treasure.
“I have waited long enough,” he said, taking her hand. “I have been a fool long enough, Freda. Our love is deeper than such a petty misunderstanding.”