Penelope hesitated, biting her lips. “I know what I saw myself do in the dream. I acted in an impossible way. I—I—here is a little thing—you know I never smoke, but in the dream I did smoke.”
“Have you ever smoked?”
“Yes, I did when my husband was living. He taught me. He said I was a better sport when I was smoking a cigarette.”
“But you haven't smoked since your husband's death?”
“Not at all. I have not smoked once since he died, not once—until last night.”
The man of science eyed her searchingly. “Mrs. Wells, you are not hiding anything from me, are you?”
“No! No! Of course not! Don't frown at me like that—please don't. I am trying my best to tell you the truth. I know these things did not happen, but—”
Here her self-control left her and, with a gesture of despair, Penelope sank forward on a little table beside her chair and sobbed hysterically, her face hidden in her arms.
“There! There!” soothed Dr. Owen. “I was a brute. I have taxed you beyond your strength.”
“I can't tell you how grateful I am for your patience and sympathy,” murmured Penelope through her tears, and, presently, regaining her composure, she continued her confession.