"You brought her back?" demanded Norman.
"She wanted to come. I simply——"
Norman made a silencing gesture. Tetlow's faltering voice stopped short. Norman stood near the table, his hands deep in his trousers' pockets, his gaze fixed upon the hat and jacket. When Tetlow's agitation could bear the uncertainties of that silence no longer, he went on:
"Fred, you mustn't forget how young and inexperienced she is. She's been foolish, but nothing more. She's as pure as when she came into the world. And it's the truth that she wanted to come back. I saw it as soon as I began to talk with her."
"What are you chattering about?" said Norman fiercely. "Why did you meddle in my affairs? Why did you bring her back?"
"I knew she needed you," pleaded Tetlow. "Then, too—I was afraid—I knew how you acted before, and I thought you'd not get your gait again until you had her."
Norman gave a short sardonic laugh. "If you'd only stop trying to understand me!" he said.
Tetlow was utterly confused. "But, Fred, you don't realize—not all," he cried imploringly. "She discovered—she thinks, I believe—that is—she—she—that probably—that in a few months you'll be something more than a husband—and she something more than a wife—that you—that—you and she will be a father and a mother."
Tetlow's meaning slowly dawned on Norman. He seated himself in his favorite attitude, legs sprawled, fingers interlaced behind his head.
"Wasn't I right to bring her back—to tell her she needn't fear to come?" pleaded Tetlow.