"I don't understand."
"There was some other woman?"
"Where is she now?"
"Dead."
"But you said you were not free."
He nodded.
"Did you care so much for her that now—that now—"
"Enid," he cried desperately. "Believe me, I never knew what love was until I met you."
The secret was out now, it had been known to her long since, but now it was publicly proclaimed. Even a man as blind, as obsessed, as he could not mistake the joy that illuminated her face at this announcement. That very joy and satisfaction produced upon him, however, a very different effect than might have been anticipated. Had he been free indeed he would have swept her to his breast and covered her sweet face with kisses broken by whispered words of passionate endearment. Instead of that he shrank back from her and it was she who was forced to take up the burden of the conversation.
"You say that she is dead," she began in sweet appealing bewilderment, "and that you care so much for me and yet you—"