"Pardon me," said he, and his manner might well have calmed the wildest tempest of anger. "I did not admit. I never admit. I leave that to people of the sort who explain and excuse and apologize. I simply told you I was paying the expenses of a family named Hallowell."
"But why should you do it, Fred?"
His smile was gently satirical. "I thought Tetlow told you why."
"I don't believe him!"
"Then why this excitement?"
One could understand how the opposition witnesses dreaded facing him. "I don't know just why," she stammered. "It seemed to me you were admitting—I mean, you were confirming what that man accused you of."
"And of what did he accuse me? I might say, of what do you accuse me?" When she remained silent he went on: "I am trying to be reasonable, Josephine. I am trying to keep my temper."
The look in her eyes—the fear, the timidity—was a startling revelation of character—of the cowardice with which love undermines the strongest nature. "I know I've been foolish and incoherent, Fred," she pleaded. "But—I love you! And you remember how I always was afraid of that girl."
"Just what do you wish to know?"
"Nothing, dear—nothing. I am not sillily jealous. I ought to be admiring you for your generosity—your charity."