"You deliberately went and did—that?"
"Yes."
"Haven't you any excuse, any defense?"
She might have told him about Burlingham dying and the need of money to save him. She might have told him about Etta—her health going—her mind made up to take to the streets, with no one to look after her. She might have made it all a moving and a true tale—of self-sacrifice for the two people who had done most for her. But it was not in her simple honest nature to try to shift blame. So all she said was:
"No, Rod."
"And you didn't want to kill yourself first?"
"No. I wanted to live. I was dirty—and I wanted to be clean. I was hungry—and I wanted food. I was cold—that was the worst. I was cold, and I wanted to get warm. And—I had been married—but I couldn't tell even you about that—except—after a woman's been through what I went through then, nothing in life has any real terror or horror for her."
He looked at her long. "I don't understand," he finally said.
"Come on. Let's go back to the hotel."
She walked beside him, making no attempt to break his gloomy silence. They went up to their room and she sat on the lounge by the window. He lit a cigarette and half sat, half lay, upon the bed. After a long time he said with a bitter laugh, "And I was so sure you were a good woman!"
"I don't feel bad," she ventured timidly. "Am I?"