“‘It seems rather hard on her. If we could but manage it in any other way.’
“‘There is no other way; sentimental pity will not help us. After all, what does it matter? Those kinds of things happen every day.’
“‘It seems like murder,’ said the captain, slowly.
“‘Not at all,’ replied my husband, cheerfully. ‘If you read the papers you would see such things happen every day.’
“‘But she is quite innocent.’
“‘Bah! who is innocent? You are sentimental, and you will find that sentiment does not pay.’
“‘Well,’ said the other, rising, ‘I wish you success. I am at your service, remember, for anything you may require.’
“They left the drawing-room together, and I sat silent among the mignonette and scarlet verbenas—not suspicious of any wrong—wondering what so strange a conversation might mean, yet never suspecting its true purport for one moment.
“I declare to Heaven,” she continued, passionately, “that even the pain of telling you these things is so great I would almost die sooner than repeat them. Judge, then, whether I was guilty or not.”